


In God We Trust

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Debbie Fiderer is a witness to all the repercussions of Zoey's kidnapping.





	1. In God We Trust

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**In God We Trust**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Debbie Fiderer is a witness to all the repercussions of Zoey's kidnapping.  
**Written:** Sept, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set in, and post-ep to, “Twenty-Five” (4th season finale) 

PHASE I: THE TEMPEST 

> "The rain came down, the floods rose, and the winds blew and beat  
> against the house, yet it did not fall, because it was founded upon the  
> rock."  
> (Matthew 7:25)  
> 

~ ZERO HOUR ~ 

The job of secretary to the boss is pretty much the same the world over. It doesn't matter if the boss works in government or in retail, in science or in finance, on the top or bottom of the organizational hierarchy. The secretary handles the countless little tasks for which the boss hasn't time, yet without which the boss cannot function. The secretary treasures the boss's confidence in some matters, and accepts the boss's necessary reticence in others. The secretary protects the boss's privacy, the boss's agenda, and sometimes the boss's backside. The secretary is the boss's first line of defense. 

The image of an older woman, overworked and underpaid, on the bottom rung, handed all the menial chores no one else in the office wants to stoop to doing, unassertive, unappreciated, at the beck and call of a male tyrant, is a familiar stereotype... and one of the most inaccurate. Any time someone asked what job she held these days, Debbie Fiderer would state the truth: she was a secretary in a branch of the federal government. No more. It was not her place to be revealing, either at her desk or away from it. And every time someone made a disparaging remark about her falling into the ancient trap for older women who don't have the education or the ambition to do better, she allowed herself a secret smile. 

Yes, she was overworked at times. So was everyone else around her - including her boss. Yes, she was underpaid, when compared to most civil servants, when calculated against the brutal hours she put in during a crisis, and when factoring in the genuine danger she sometimes faced. So was everyone else on the same payroll - including her boss. Several of her tasks could be classed as menial, but no administrative system can do without them, so her efforts were essential to the effectiveness of the whole. Those who knew her would never think her unassertive, and that had certainly not changed with her new work environment. Nor did she feel in any way unappreciated. And she did not consider herself for one moment to be at the beck and call of anyone, much less a tyrant... although surely some people would take issue on that, did they but know. 

It was far better if they didn't know. Debbie contributed to the smooth running and the vital security of the highest office in the land, and few indeed could boast the same. Still, she exercised care _not_ to boast. The hard work, the punishing schedule, the tight restrictions and the lingering risks were more than offset by the enormous privilege of working _here_ , and the fascinating people whose dedication and skill she observed regularly. 

Interruptions to her daily grind came in just about every description possible. Famous public faces, prominent politicians, entrepreneurs, sports and music icons, ambassadors... anyone who deserved some executive praise, or who had earned an executive scolding, or who wanted to barter for executive support. Various members of the First Family, a rather less frequent and usually more pleasant interlude without any brokerage attached. Charlie Young, escorting the latest visitor down these awe-inspiring corridors with quiet dignity. Josh Lyman, needing to discuss a new wrinkle in some bogged-down legislation they'd been fighting to pass for weeks. Toby Ziegler, incensed over the latest upheaval in the private sector that they couldn't pretend to ignore. CJ Cregg, preparing to take on the worst the Press Corps could throw her way. Will Bailey, bringing additions and clarifications to whatever speech was on the go. The National Security Advisor or the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself, possessing news of international import. Leo McGarry, seen far less often in reception since his office had a private entrance directly into the Oval Office itself, and as likely to be the bearer of a catastrophe or of a crossword stumper. The Secret Service, terrifyingly silent and grim, conducting their frequent security sweeps without asking leave of anyone, and locking down the entire building if they so much as suspected that security had been compromised. 

The White House radiated history, and power, and vigilance. Debbie Fiderer never knew who might show up next to see the President of the United States - or if it might be the President himself. She couldn't guess if the next issue that reared its head involved the safety of one man, the party as a whole, the entire nation, or merely the world. She well understood the concept of always being prepared for anything. 

Her only warning this time was the sudden, unnatural sound of pounding footfalls nearby. Coming from the Oval Office. 

Even in the short time she'd been here, and the not-inconsiderable emergencies she'd already seen, this was unheard of. 

She turned towards the open door into that vacant chamber, just in time to glimpse a flicker of rapid movement. But the sprinters did not exit into reception. 

From that angle, there was only one other exit available. Debbie pivoted fast in the opposite direction, towards her exterior window onto the West Wing Portico - and saw a sight that could not be mistaken for all its brevity, a sight that defied belief: the White House Chief of Staff charging past at a dead run. Hard on his heels raced at least three Secret Service agents, the one in the lead being the Special Agent in Charge of White House security, and head of the President's own detail. 

They had come from Leo's office. They had run straight through the empty Oval Office. They were headed towards the Residence. 

The disbelief transmuted into apprehension. 

Without further delay, Debbie reached for her phone and dialed a familiar number. 

"Yes, Debbie?" Wonderful thing, a phone with a display field; you know who's calling. 

"Nancy. Red alert." 

The pause at that brief, crisp, dreaded message spoke volumes. "Okay, I'm on it." However, human nature can't easily be suppressed. "How bad do you think?" 

"Leo just ran past here." 

"Leo RAN?" If Debbie hadn't known that this was a total aberration of the norm, her assistant's shocked repetition would have confirmed it. Nancy had worked here far longer. 

"And Ron was right behind." 

"Oh, God." Some people can debate which is worse to deal with: wars or scandals... but the blatant truth is that a scandal usually doesn't result in bloodshed. 

"Yes, I don't see this blowing over anytime soon." Debbie had already pulled out a list of precautions she was to instigate in a real emergency. "Start calling up the reserves. All support staff, domestics and maintenance. Quietly." 

Nancy had a similar list; her desk drawer banged audibly over the phone as she obtained it. "Gotcha. I'll let you know as soon as I know who can come in at once." 

"And I'll brief you as soon as someone briefs _me_. Sounds like this could be a long night." 

Debbie hung up, her expression even more morose than usual. Then she picked up the remote control to the TV, set in its polished cabinet against one wall, and switched it on. A lot of crises dealt with in the White House never made the headlines. The media might know nothing at all, or at least they might not learn the deeper truth behind the surface details. 

Tonight might be a story that no one could stifle. 

If Leo was _that_ desperate to get to the President, it had to be huge. If Ron was involved, it had to be a security breach. Nope, not good. 

For political problems, the President's secretary often remained in ignorance; technically, she was just support staff as well. For security problems, she usually heard fast; she was the highest ranking support staffer and a critical part of the safety net around the Oval Office. 

She sighed, made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the tangle of her long dark hair, and then started on her own alarm checklist. Whatever had just happened, and whenever someone deigned to tell her, she would be ready. For anything. 

~ HOUR 1 ~ 

Charlie dragged himself into Oval Office reception, bearing scant resemblance to the brisk young man who'd left it mere hours earlier. His shoulders were slumped, his stride slow and uncertain, his features slack. Even someone who didn't know what had happened could tell that this was not physical exhaustion. This was a horror of the soul. 

He approached his desk, one of two wooden sentinels guarding the ovoid office just one door away. He stared at this spot, _his_ spot, no doubt considering the honor he felt at being allowed to sit there, and the trust of being allowed to work here, and the privilege of being allowed to know his boss personally... and his boss's family as well. 

From the expression on his face, not at all masked by its mocha tone, he seemed to feel that he had betrayed that honor, that trust and that privilege altogether. 

He turned to the closed door, the white door between him and the inner sanctum of the nation's government... which he must have suspected to be the sole barrier between him and the father of the young woman who was missing. 

Known to be abducted. Feared to be dead - or dying. 

Debbie sat at her own desk and held her peace, waiting until all of these mental images had been processed and absorbed. Waiting until the fresh tide of guilt had risen and crested. Waiting until the personal aide to the President finally noticed her presence. 

"I know what happened." It had been all over the news in minutes. Of course she'd been watching, hoping that whatever had so alarmed Leo wouldn't hit the airwaves, fearing that it would. 

No one had had to circulate a bulletin through the White House tonight. Even as the headlines broke, the agents on hall duty had doubled in number. They were in "black" mode - the most critical security alert of all, not seen in this Administration since Rosslyn. 

The initial shock of Zoey's disappearance hadn't faded yet; the adrenaline hadn't leveled out. Everyone was fighting panic, fearful not only for the First Daughter's welfare but also for that of her father and, inevitably, the country itself. Debbie still had many things to do, all of them urgent, and she expected that her task list would only increase as this night went on... but she paused now, and gave her full attention to the suffering right here. 

Charlie looked at her for a moment, almost but not quite expressionless. The pain was concentrated in his eyes. Then he turned away, as though nothing she could say would ever make him feel better. 

Debbie never let such hints deter her from what _needed_ saying. 

"Do not blame yourself." 

Charlie sank into his chair. "Don't bother. It's my fault. I know it, the President knows it, and Zoey knows it." 

Assuming she was still alive, of course. 

"Oh, so _you_ contracted the kidnapping. In order to prevent her from going to France?" Debbie could be as confrontational as Toby at his best. Both knew how to provoke a response from the most uncooperative sources. "The President will actually thank you." 

Charlie didn't rise to the bait. "I told her to go." He bowed his head, confessing to a capital crime. "She was thinking of staying, but I told her to go ahead to the club." 

"I'll bet a year's pay that if you'd told her _not_ to go, she'd have gone anyway." Debbie leaned both elbows on her desk, a lecturer's pose if ever there was one. "Zoey was caught between two men, neither of whom she wanted to hurt. She made her decision. Why don't you blame _her?_ It makes just as much sense." 

"No, I'm blaming me. I could've stopped her." 

"Sure, you're omniscient. You knew this would happen." 

Logic versus emotion: a losing battle. "And the President's gonna blame me, too." 

Debbie's aggressive stance eased. "I doubt it. He's way too busy blaming himself." 

She hadn't seen him yet tonight. He'd had the evening off in the Residence, along with friends who likewise had just seen their children graduate. An evening of reminiscence and melancholy pride - shattered all in an instant. From there he must have gone straight to the Situation Room, and he would probably be there for some while. 

Debbie did not look forward to the next time she encountered him. 

Charlie had sunk into apathetic silence, hardly eager for conversation. Not only did he feel personally responsible for making this nightmare that much more inevitable, but he could do absolutely nothing to resolve it. 

At the moment, there was nothing administrative for _anyone_ to do. Nothing except keep functioning, keep the wheels turning as smoothly as possible... and wait. 

Debbie could speak from experience about the healing power of tenacious friendship and encouragement despite all internal resistance. Charlie had done that for her once himself; she wouldn't be here otherwise. The very least she could do was return the favor. 

"So you met Zoey earlier this evening." 

Something in this tone refused to take silence or evasion for an answer. Charlie still didn't look at his colleague, but he was drawn out despite himself. 

"At the Arboretum. Before she went to the club." He sat very still, and one could tell that the memory of those private, bittersweet minutes before their world crashed in flames were parading through his mind... with all the bleak overtones of the conflagration so shortly to come. 

"And she expressed a reluctance to go there?" 

He shrugged listlessly. "To the club... to France..." 

"But you told her she should go anyway?" 

Some people might find this approach quite insensitive. Debbie's reasoning was that, if Charlie had any hope of getting past his self-immolation, he needed to do so now. Over time, with hypotheses from the news cycle and badgering from other people needing to know all the details, his recollections would become less accurate. 

If he had any glimmer of her benevolent intentions, Charlie gave no sign. The answers came as though he had no control over them. "To the club, yeah. Because this isn't a good time to stop showing up... when you say you're gonna show up. Something like that." 

"Did you go there with her?" 

"Josh and I sorta made our own way." 

Debbie's eyebrows elevated at this first mention that Josh had been directly involved, but she thought better of pursuing that track. She wasn't the official interrogator; Josh could fill in the blanks of the overall timeline on his own when asked. Charlie's conscience, and his heart, was her concern now. "You went in?" 

"Nah... we hung around outside. With Wes." 

"Why?" A sensible question - what possible reason could this young man have had for standing out in the night, surrounded by parked cars, without even a drink, while the woman he so plainly loved was inside, supposedly having a good time? 

This time he couldn't frame an answer. The pain mounted in his vision, still averted from this perceived accusation. 

A psychologist, and a friend, both turned to in a time of trial, needs to risk jumping to wrong conclusions in an effort to entice further revelation. "You were hoping that she'd soon leave, and that you could come back here with her." 

Debbie might have struck closer to home than she'd expected. The continuing silence and the lack of movement before her reeked of affirmation. 

"You wanted to prove to her that you loved her enough to let her make her own choices, even choices without you. You wanted to back her up the only way you could: by being nearby, within reach, in case she chose you after all." 

Not a whisper of denial. 

Impressions continued to surface. "If you'd gone inside, she would have resented the pressure." And more impressions, even less pleasant than before. "But if you had, you also might have somehow prevented the abduction. Just by being there." 

He hesitated, and then admitted to this with a jerky nod. His thoughts could not have been more transparent: if only he'd been present, even to stop the bullet himself... anything, any price, if it could have averted what they all now faced. 

The executive secretary was not inconsiderate by nature or by ignorance. She cared deeply as well, but couldn't afford - for the sake of the President and his office - to let it show. Here and now, she focused on results. Charlie needed her strength and her control. The best way to deal with trauma is to face it. The swiftest surgery is usually the least painful. 

"And Zoey would be safe, and Molly would be alive. And the First Couple..." 

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, gripped his desk edge, and just shook. Debbie had homed in unerringly upon the crux of his anguish. He blamed himself on so many levels. 

"Would be mourning _you_ instead," she concluded quietly, making her point in spades. 

"Fine by me." This time the words came unhesitatingly. 

"Twenty-twenty hindsight, Charlie. _No one_ could have known. The agents did their jobs to the best of their abilities. They're still human. They were outplayed. That's all." 

He didn't look the least convinced. 

Debbie exhaled heavily and sat back, contemplating this personification of misery before her. Yet for all its genuine strength, it still couldn't equal what actual family members had to be feeling. She ached for every one of them. 

"I can only imagine what the President's going through. Just yesterday he all but begged Zoey not to take this vacation." The bare bones of that exchange had made the rounds of the West Wing in record time, creating many an "aww" of sympathy for the father and the daughter both. "That must've been the last time they had a chance to speak to each other." 

Debbie's throat caught a bit. The actual words made that heartrending fact all the more poignant. 

When at last Charlie found his own voice, it could barely be heard. "That's the thing. I'm responsible for him, too." 

No one who knew the President's body man at all would consider that statement the least bit strange or exaggerated, Debbie included. Still, she had a self-appointed mission: to turn this anticipatory grief into productive action. 

"We're _all_ responsible for him. We're all here for him. And he's going to need every single one of us to help him through this." She paused, her earnest eyes fastened on the young man drowning in guilt before her. "That includes you." 

It required several seconds of persistent silence on her part, but in the end Charlie finally looked up. 

~ HOUR 2 ~ 

"At eleven twenty-one PM, Special Agent Wesley Davis of the U.S. Secret Service called in an AOP, which means Attack on the Principal." C.J.'s face must have been splashed across every television channel in the States, and probably carried by more than a few foreign signals as well. The tremors that had erupted barely an hour ago were rippling around the world. 

Debbie kept the TV volume fairly low, so that she could tune out most of the time yet tune in when something particularly noteworthy cropped up. A lot of her information would not come from the broadcasts, of course. She was part of The Team, and cleared to quite a high code level; the executive secretary had to be. On the other hand, people might not have time to spare for briefing her when they also needed to brief the President, in person. 

Her job demanded that she be as informed as possible and as permissible. Data is armor, strength... power. Data makes one useful. 

A secretary always has to multitask, even on quiet days. Tonight - or rather, this morning - was as unquiet as it could get. Debbie leapt rapidly from one thing to another: answering the phone, keeping notes of events, juggling reports that all emergencies generate. Her own momentum continued to build as she fought to stay on top of things. It was perfectly understandable to feel harried; however, if she let that momentum get out of control, then her part of the mechanism would break down and therefore jeopardize the whole. 

Charlie labored at his own desk, backing up her paperwork every chance he got. His primary assignment right now, though, was doorkeeper, admitting those privileged few who were entitled to presidential access even in a crisis. That left her free to concentrate on the phone and the computer... and spared her having to deal with the rampant emotions of these consultants flocking to the Oval Office - and The Man whose office it was. Sounded like a fair trade. 

At least the body man looked steadier and less withdrawn than when he'd first returned... channeling his energies towards what he could do, rather than dwelling on what he couldn't do or failed to do. Debbie savored the knowledge that so far she'd had at least a bit of a positive effect on the proceedings. 

Her phone rang again. She lifted the receiver without even glancing at it. "Oval Office." Pause. "Thank you." She hung up. "Toby's here." 

Charlie nodded, not lifting his gaze either. "Full House." They had both settled into short exchanges with an economy of words, as though some instinct demanded that every second spent on unnecessary conversation was one more valuable second wasted. Even the automatic pun on houses went without comment. 

"Just about." Debbie surveyed her list again. C.J. and Will had never left, Josh had arrived with Charlie over half an hour ago, and now Toby had returned from wherever he'd vanished to all afternoon. She resisted the natural impulse to wonder what he'd been doing and why so long. If it turned out to be any of her business, she'd hear about it. 

The support staff had almost reached full strength as well. All assistants to the senior staff had, of course, been present; they rarely ended their day before their bosses did. The next stratum of clerks and interns was as complete as it could be, and the extra domestic and maintenance crews were pouring in, at least as fast as the ultra-tight security clamp around the White House would let them. By now, Debbie figured, they had enough people on hand at all levels to run every aspect of this building round the clock for a solid week. 

God forbid that it should require a week to resolve this. 

"Admiral." 

Debbie looked up. Charlie had just greeted a new visitor: a man in full dress uniform, carrying a medical bag. 

"Charlie." The military doctor nodded to the presidential aide, and to the executive secretary; no more. He too felt the need to pare things down to absolute essentials. 

Without a word, Charlie ushered him inside. 

Debbie refrained from watching them enter. She had seen the President exactly once since all hell broke loose, and then only briefly. He probably hadn't seen her at all at the time. He'd marched past at a pace that most people would have had to run to keep up with, and he'd clearly noticed nothing beyond the calamity that now defined his existence. 

She didn't want to see him like this. 

Calling in the official physician had been a grim necessity. Regulations far older than this Administration stipulated that the President's general health must be monitored during any major time of stress. It wouldn't take the kidnapping of a family member to drive a normal person's blood pressure through the roof. 

Of course no one mentioned multiple sclerosis out loud, but who could fail to think about it? _Any_ parent might crack under such a hideous pressure, never mind a national leader with responsibilities beyond most people's comprehension. Never mind the most powerful man in the world. 

Never mind a man with an intermittently debilitating illness that tended to flare up under stress. And what stress could surpass this? 

So far, he hadn't shown any sign of collapse or even wavering. Of course, the emergency was still young. 

Nancy appeared just as Charlie exited and shut the door behind him. She offered a smile meant to be supportive and encouraging; he just nodded sadly and returned to his desk. 

Then the assistant to the President's personal secretary handed her boss a slip of paper, her smile evaporating like mist. 

"Molly's parents' number." 

Debbie stiffened in her seat. Three words, in a very low tone, packing every bit as much of an impact as a bullet. She needed at least two constricted heartbeats before she could bring herself to accept that note. Nancy left at once, not wanting to be present during this phone call for anything. 

If Charlie could have left as well, he probably would have. All he _could_ do was observe, and silently offer the comfort and comradeship that Debbie had extended to him. 

By now everyone knew that a female Secret Service agent had been killed tonight. C.J. had just refused to release her name, pending notification of her family. And now Debbie held the phone number to those closest family members. 

Ron Butterfield would have previously contacted them with the dreaded confirmation; as the overall security coordinator for the entire First Family, that was part of his job. Just as it was a hated part of the President's job, whenever possible, to speak with relatives of those who had given their lives in service to their country. Just as it was an equally hated part of Debbie's job to contact those relatives personally, and prepare them to speak to their national leader... for the most tragic reason possible, turning what should be a once-in-a-lifetime honor into an added twist of the knife. 

Soon the entire world would know about the O'Connors' loss. Their daughter had died heroically, doing what she wanted to do, but neither that conviction nor public support nor executive understanding would alleviate the crushing blow they'd only just been dealt. 

Finally, fighting an impossible sensation that her hand weighed several times more than it should, Debbie reached out and punched in the digits. 

How can so few seconds last so long? Yet, conversely, it seemed like a mere instant before there was an answer. 

"Hello." A masculine voice. A mature voice. A subdued voice. 

"Mr. Fred O'Connor?" 

The acknowledgment also seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. "Yes." 

"My name is Debbie Fiderer." She had to pause for breath. The same thing happened the previous time she'd had to do this, which had been the _first_ time she'd had to do this: as though the very air was being drawn out of her lungs through sheer pity. "I'm calling from the White House." 

An even longer hesitation. "I see." He must've known what was coming. 

"Sir... if you and your wife are up to it... and we all would certainly understand if you're not... the President would like to speak with you." 

It wasn't her place to offer condolences. She hoped that the sadness in her voice conveyed them anyway. 

Silence, stretching out until she could _hear_ the falling tears on the other end. Until she wasn't sure if he _could_ answer. 

"Thank you. That's kind of him." No one would disagree: a terror-stricken parent, who also had the colossal burden of commanding the last and greatest superpower on earth, taking time to consider a _grief_ -stricken parent. Trying to ease their similar, inconsolable pain together. 

Debbie blinked rapidly. "Just a moment, please." 

She looked up; Charlie was already at the door, waiting for her cue. He drew a deep, stabilizing breath of his own, and entered the Oval Office. 

She remained, holding that heartbreakingly quiet phone, waiting for that unmistakable baritone to join them. So grateful that she didn't have to be the one to look him in the eye and tell him who was waiting on the line. 

Her sympathy surged for the O'Connors and the Bartlets together, all of whom had just had their families torn asunder. Her sympathy for the President in particular climbed even higher. He didn't know if his daughter was dead or alive. How could he deal with parental grief for the agent who had given her life in an effort to protect his daughter - and failed? 

How could he hope to deal with his job, his own family, _himself_? 

~ HOUR 3 ~ 

"Debbie!" 

The executive secretary's head jerked up. Donna Moss had just burst into reception, paying no mind to the usual dignity of this entire locale. 

"Where's the President?" she almost gasped. 

"Last I heard, in the Residence." Debbie felt no surprise at being expected to have that information. It was the task of the Secret Service to know their protectee's exact whereabouts for security reasons. It was her task for administrative reasons. She needed to be able to direct those with instant access, like Leo, and to bar those who would otherwise be intruding. She needed to know when the door was open and when it was closed, when The Man was available and when he was not. 

Josh's assistant showed no disappointment that she couldn't enter the Oval Office at once. Her eyes were wider than usual - even more so than might be expected from this entire melodrama. "He won't be for long." She sounded very certain of that. 

Silently toiling away at his own desk, Charlie looked up. 

Donna turned to him at the same time. "You both need to know this. A ransom note has been received." 

As a general rule, news was not to be exchanged between the lower echelons of White House staff. Of course every office has its gossip: harmless details about people's love lives or lack thereof. However, real news is supposed to come down to you from your boss, meaning that your boss deemed it necessary for you to know - not from your peers, as though someone was listening outside an almost-closed door. Whether that news was exclusively political, dealt with legislation, focused on a potential scandal or included bombing targets, everyone here knew not to discuss it until and unless it became common knowledge. 

This kind of news called for a rare gloves-off policy. When the life of one of your own is at stake, you pull together. It's the only way to endure. 

Both Debbie and Charlie settled their hands and raised their eyebrows, in full attention and apprehension. 

Donna's eyes darted constantly between them. "It came off the Communications fax only a few minutes ago. I just sent it to be translated." 

Debbie frowned. "Translated from what?" Yet she knew, even before she heard the answer. 

"I couldn't read it, but it looked Arabic." 

"And there was a picture?" Charlie demanded. 

Donna nodded, a frightened rattling motion. "A bit blurred by the transmission, but you could tell it was Zoey - and you could tell what she was wearing." 

Debbie sighed dispiritedly. "So it's a foreign deal after all. There probably isn't a regime on earth that doesn't have operatives right here in our own backyard. Three guesses what they'll be asking for in exchange... and the first two don't count." 

The assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff nodded again. "A major international concession." 

"And the President can't negotiate." 

No, he couldn't - not according to the United Nations. He could lead this country despite his frantic worry for his daughter's safety. He could make and already had made tough national decisions, even as Zoey's welfare preyed viciously upon his mind. But now, when presented with a specific threat, with a price that he technically could meet and that presumably would guarantee his little girl's safe return... yet would also place the rest of the world in hock to every other terrorist around... 

_How_ could he be expected to choose between two such extremes? 

"Thanks for telling us, Donna." The executive secretary turned back to her work, weary and resigned. "Even bad news is better than no news at -" 

"Wait a second!" The personal aide to the President suddenly leaped right out of his chair. "The note was _faxed_? How did they get our fax number?" 

Three heads swiveled rapidly towards each other, bouncing this new idea. 

"The public phone number is listed," Debbie pointed out, on the same wavelength. "This is the People's House. But the fax numbers sure aren't." 

Donna's eyes got wider still if that were possible. "I'll tell Josh." She whirled and hurried out of reception, gaining speed with every stride. 

"I'll tell the Service." Charlie was halfway to the threshold himself. 

"Better let Josh do it," Debbie advised gently. This young man was burning up with the need to help, and had no idea _how_ to help. But too many versions of the same data coming from too many directions would only add to the confusion. 

He took her point, though very reluctantly. 

Now that she thought of it, Debbie recalled a vague memory of general references to troop movement oversees during one of the earlier news bulletins. At the time it had failed to fully register; she'd been rather occupied with events at home. Now, with this latest revelation, that reference suddenly swelled in proportion. As though someone hadn't been satisfied with the scope of the crisis as is, open warfare was now only a hair-trigger away. 

How many _more_ lives would be risked - and lost - before their literal and figurative nightfall ended? 

It seemed mere moments later, although the entire concept of time had been totally skewed for everyone in this historical and influential place, when Margaret entered. 

Debbie snapped to full alertness at once. The only person whose workload came close to that of the President himself was the Chief of Staff. Also, Leo relied on his assistant almost as much as Josh relied on his. For Margaret to leave her desk on the other side of the Oval Office in a crisis of this magnitude said two things: her boss was elsewhere - five will get you ten, with his embattled Chief Executive - and she had something _very_ important to say. 

Charlie got the exact same idea. His features tightened anew. 

Margaret didn't bother with any preliminaries. "They've got the blood results back on Jean-Paul." 

Debbie's immediate reaction was to look at Charlie - and she blinked at the slight yet visible snarl. 

He'd have been less than human if he didn't feel anger, and not solely at the mere mention of his rival for Zoey's heart. Even so, seldom could an expression look more unnatural on a person's face than animosity did on this young man. Debbie didn't have the long history with him that many other employees here did, but she could still tell. Margaret's uneasy shift corroborated her evaluation. 

Tonight's events had changed all of them, and in many different ways. 

"Wes said it wasn't Ecstasy." Somehow, Charlie kept his voice level. He seemed to be waiting for something specific, coiled and ready to act. 

"It wasn't," Margaret confirmed flatly. "It was a date-rape drug." 

Debbie sucked in a harsh breath. 

"And Jean-Paul gave her some." There was neither surprise nor doubt in Charlie's tone: just cold certainty. He must have already concluded that Zoey had to have been under the influence of something stronger than just a couple of drinks to put up no resistance, make no sound, and lose her panic button despite all of her security training. 

Margaret nodded, slowly and with great concern. "And there's no way she'd have been so stupid as to take it voluntarily." 

Debbie also didn't know the members of the First Family that well, but she saw no reason to doubt this interpretation. Few people are as conscious of the dangers of drug abuse as a medical doctor, and Zoey had a world-class physician for a mother. 

Abruptly, the body man headed for the hall. "If they bring that guy here, _don't_ tell me." His hands were fists. 

Both women watched him go, then shared a very sober look. 

"If they do, tell _me_." Debbie wasn't referring to any lack of agreement on her part with Charlie's sentiment, but to her need to keep on top of events that might directly affect their boss. _That_ possible scenario sure qualified. 

"Right. Just don't tell any of _us_ , either." After Charlie, Margaret was the staffer Debbie saw the most of on an average day. Never had Debbie witnessed this level of outrage in her, either. "That jerk _assaulted_ her." 

Then the Chief of Staff's assistant checked. No doubt thinking, just as Debbie was, of how many different ways one could apply the term "assault." 

What emotional and _physical_ abuse might Zoey be going through right now? No one in the White House was so callous as to comment aloud, but they couldn't stop themselves from worrying. 

One definition of "friend" is a person who cares enough to worry in the first place. 

It can also be a definition of "family." 

~ HOUR 4 ~ 

The image played across every station in existence. An opening door. A bombardment of white camera flashes. A cacophony of shouting voices. A brief image of the best-known woman in the country - petite yet never fragile, with natural beauty and unpretentious dignity. A glimpse of her expression, as she had never been seen before - ashen and shocked, red-rimmed eyes staring. A tall Press Secretary's protective intervention and exasperated shout: "Come on, guys, give her a break!" 

"Yes, _do!_ " Debbie muttered at the TV. Not that the reporters in the Press Room or the producers of the news shows could hear her, but it made her feel marginally better to voice her feelings. Some people didn't care how thoughtless or cruel their actions might be to others, so long as they got the story. 

Any decent person would have been torn anew by the radiating pain on Abbey Bartlet's face in those two seconds of coverage. 

At least Charlie had missed this; he was currently with the President. He would've really been bothered; he possessed a special regard for the First Lady. Some time ago, they had joined forces in a not-so-secret society to watch over their notoriously stubborn Commander-in-Chief. 

Good thing The Man had missed this as well. Or at least he had for the moment... 

The phone rang. "Oval Office." 

Debbie had to admit she really liked saying that. Even at a time like this. 

"It's Amy." 

The executive secretary's head rose, scenting trouble. This could hardly be about anyone else. "I saw the clip. How is Mrs. Bartlet doing?" 

"Not well." Pause. "She wanted to make a direct appeal." 

Debbie didn't need Amy Gardner's political savvy to see the dangers to that kind of public move. "While the President is moving troops into the Middle East and breathing fire and brimstone? Not a good idea. He can't bargain. She can't, either." 

"I know. _She_ knows, too. But she's still a mother!" The helplessness they all felt reached its height in that lament. 

"And the President's a father." Debbie took care _not_ to pause; there really was too much rivalry between East and West around here. "And _no one_ should have to go through this, much less them." 

"The horrid thing is, people do." The First Lady's Chief of Staff sounded perilously close to despair. 

Debbie waited. Her instincts told her there had to be more... and probably not to the good. 

"We're in C.J.'s office. I've called her doctor." 

C.J. didn't need a private physician herself. Both sets of senior staff had an alarming tendency to refer to "their" half of the First Couple by pronoun alone. The curious thing was, it rarely got confusing. It represented an incredible profound sense of belonging. 

Debbie truly understood that despair now. Would the First Lady be sedated? Had her renowned composure deteriorated to that terrible extent? No one would deny a distraught mother such care during such a nightmare; almost anything would be better than a constant state of savage anxiety. Still, even after having seen that vision of horror on TV, Debbie simply couldn't picture Abbey Bartlet breaking down so completely. For anything. 

"Keep me posted?" she asked quietly. 

"Sure. I'm just glad it's the doctor that has to tell him." 

"You and me both." The devotion and protectiveness that the President often displayed towards his wife was matched only by his adoration and protectiveness for his children. If the Chief Executive was the rock upon which the Administration was founded, the political center of their world... then Abbey Bartlet was the rock upon which Jed Bartlet was founded, the emotional center of _his_ world. 

For him to see the effects this horror was having on her, and not be able to prevent it... 

Debbie hung up, sat back, and gloomily watched the news clip roll past again. 

The President had been touchingly disappointed that he'd failed to convince his little girl to stay home. By all reports, the First Lady had accepted this inevitable growing-up process rather more stoically. The odds were she now blamed herself for not objecting more. On the other hand, the President would consider it his personal duty to protect his family - especially since it had been his decision to run for the high office that led to this danger in the first place. Still, nothing is more dangerous than a mother defending its young. 

It was pointless to wonder which of them might be suffering more, either from worry or from guilt. It was redundant to say that both of them would be crushed if their daughter did not survive. 

No, Debbie did not want to be the one to tell the President about his wife's perfectly natural attempt to deal with this anguish, nor did she want to brief him on his wife's current condition. She had absolutely no idea what to say to either of them. No words ever devised could encompass their pain. 

And as if that pain wasn't already more than enough on its own, the Bartlets had to face the brutal truth that every move they made was projected onto the world stage. Every word they said was broadcast far and wide, debated by an insatiable audience and examined for any hint of a flaw. It would be no exaggeration to say that their actions had international impact. This knowledge made expressing their distress, or even admitting to it, a whole lot harder. They deserved their own time alone, like anyone else, just to be parents, just to be themselves. They _needed_ that time. And they weren't getting it. 

How much time could they hope to spend together, shoring each other up in a way that no one else possibly could - an essential ingredient to the sanity of both - when he had such massive responsibilities, and when she had no choice but to stay out of his way? 

Debbie broke out of her morose introspection and sat up straighter at a fresh TV image: snippets from the Bartlet family video file. How this station got its hands on such personal footage to begin with, it never said. The scenes focused on a young Congressman and his youngest daughter, no more than three years old. They couldn't have looked happier or more innocent, quite unaware of the heights _and_ the depths slowly taking shape in their mutual future. 

~ HOUR 5 ~ 

Unheralded, the door to the Oval Office swung open. 

Hinges did not creak in this House. However, Debbie had fast learned to detect _any_ movement from that direction. Besides, everyone's nerves were on edge. She turned at once. 

Jed Bartlet stepped into view. 

His famous features were set in what looked like a permanent scowl, and his brilliant blue eyes glittered with a cold flame. That scowl, that flame contrasted vividly against his warm nature, his engaging personality, his mischievous humor and positive outlook that even the burden of world peace could not quench. 

This dire threat to his family and his soul, however, had come close. 

This man commanded the might of the greatest military force in human history. This man single-handedly wielded the power of peace and war, of countless soldiers marching into battle, of hideous weapons wiping out entire cities. This man made the ultimate decision on how that fearsome, almost unimaginable strength would be used - or not. This man controlled the destiny of the entire human race. 

This man had been placed in the worst possible position: balancing military force and sworn duty against a single life. 

His country... or his family? 

There was no middle ground. 

Debbie rose, not hurriedly, but deliberately and willingly. He was more than their leader: he was their utterly reliable foundation in this storm, the stabilizing entity that grounded them, the driving force that enabled them to keep working. He was the sun they orbited, without whom they would not exist. He was both the high office under pressure and the mortal man under attack... and any of them would give their lives to end his suffering. 

Because of this man, they would not give way. 

The very air crackled around him, charged and electrified by his pain, by his responsibilities, by the merciless conflict that threatened to tear his heart asunder. 

By... resolution? 

No one accompanied him. Charlie had been drafted for some errand. The only other presence right now was the increasingly obvious Secret Service agents right outside reception, a mere handful of yards away. 

This was the second time Debbie had seen him tonight, and the first time he'd seen _her_. 

She kept her features carefully locked down, allowing not one trace of worry or, God forbid, pity to leak out. That would only make matters worse for him. She was always one of the least expressive people around, an image she maintained as a form of self-defense. That image required constant effort... an effort which paid off now. 

"Mr. President." She stood at attention, awaiting his orders. No matter what they might be, she would obey them. 

Slowly, he approached her desk. This gave her plenty of time to scramble for unnecessary words, to call up senseless platitudes, to attempt to console the inconsolable, to feed the fire of his torment. The fact that she chose not to do so might have helped that frigid glare ease just a bit. She wished to serve, pure and simple. It was enough. 

Perhaps it helped further that she did not know him as intimately as the rest of the senior staff. He found it easier to mask his intense emotional turmoil around her. 

On the other hand, they had grown fairly comfortable around each other in a relatively short time... and she had more than once before demonstrated a concern for his well-being that went beyond her job description. 

Debbie had worked in the lower realms of the White House before, early in the first Bartlet Administration. She'd met Delores Landingham only once, but certainly knew _of_ her. When she first landed this job, she'd heard a great deal about that remarkable woman - from support staff, from senior staff, from The Man himself. She'd detected, at the start, more than a few subtle echoes of resentment, from more than a few sources, that anyone should dare move into this desk, which had been left sacredly vacant for over a year. A perfectly natural response. 

Without crowding that treasured memory, she had set out to prove herself and bring her own character to the role, her own abilities and contributions. Time heals, and shared toil bonds. Before very long, she had been accepted. She had taken her place in the ever-changing machinery of government and of life. She had been permitted to join the privileged ranks of The Team. 

In an unexpected side effect, she had rapidly contracted the bug of personal allegiance. 

She was not the President's old friend, but she was someone on whom he could count, come hell or high water. He knew it, too. 

Without ceremony, he now handed over two loose-leaf pages. "If you could type these up, please." 

"Of course, sir." Debbie swallowed any surprise that he needed nothing more strenuous than this. Every little task contributed to the end result: a successful resolution. She could be relied upon to do her job, to do it promptly and to do it right. 

Something in his posture warned her that these letters were more than they seemed. He could not have appeared graver if he'd handed her the nuclear codes. 

Automatically, she started to read, in case she had any questions about the contents. At least _this_ boss had legible handwriting - in fact stylish, almost cursive. Some of the scripts she'd seen elsewhere... 

The phrases suddenly coalesced into actual meaning. She stopped, started again at the top and read much more slowly, forcing herself to check each word. 

They didn't change. 

At some point she noticed vaguely that she was sitting down. She must have sunk into her chair without realizing it, as though her legs had collapsed in unadulterated shock. And one was not supposed to sit in the presence of the President without invitation. 

When she looked up, fearing and yet _needing_ confirmation of these pages' intent, she saw the door to the Oval Office closing behind her leader's retreating back. 

What had her reaction told him? 

Certainly, his reaction told _her_ that what she held... was real. 

"Availing myself of the Constitutional option offered to this Office by Section III of the Twenty-fifth Amendment..." 

~ HOUR 6 ~ 

Charlie entered reception through the Portico door, shutting it carefully behind him. And just stood there for a moment. 

Debbie studied his blank features, her suspicions on the rise. "What now?" 

He turned towards her - far too slowly. 

"We need to contact the Staff Secretary. Leo's freezing all non-essential paper for executive signature. Until further notice." 

Debbie felt herself physically deflate. Despite those letters, despite the hard glint in the President's eye at that time, despite the national complications and international price tag to this whole mess, a part of her had still refused to believe. 

Until now. Now she couldn't pretend any longer that those letters were just a precaution against a possible, distant future. He'd made his decision, and he was going through with it. He would be signing one more document _as_ President, and one only. 

And Leo, sandwiched squarely in the middle of what would for sure become a constitutional quagmire, had agreed with him. 

The two staffers traded a glance that defied all vocal interpretation. The sensation of total unreality, of irrevocable dissolution of their world, could not be resisted. Surely they'd all wake up in another heartbeat and none of this would have happened... 

Before she could comment, not that she had any firm idea just what to say in such an unthinkable circumstance, Charlie started towards his desk. His posture bespoke of pure resignation. "I've got to get a federal judge here, now." 

At this time, in this place, a federal judge would be needed for just one purpose. 

Debbie knew where the President was right now: in the Cabinet Room. She knew where her two letters were: on the conference table before him. 

She looked at the clock, its hands marking this moment for all time. 

The unreality persisted. She called the Staff Secretary, and gave an order that had not been heard in this White House since Nixon. She answered her phone, and made a note that all of the West Wing senior staff were now in site. She watched as Dr. Nancy McNally and Admiral Percy Fitzwallace marched stiffly past her, allowing Charlie to show them into the vacant Oval Office. She proceeded with her own tasks, many and essential, almost as though the world was not turning on its ear underneath her. 

There was a substantial dose of irony in this as well. The President's verdict would have massive repercussions for everyone in the White House... but he had arrived at this verdict precisely in order to prevent a similar earthquake from crashing throughout the country, and indeed the world. 

The doors to the Portico were bulletproof, weatherproof and soundproof. Each pane bore an antique bubble motif for added privacy. However, if she glanced over one shoulder, she could see the shadowy figures gathering: people who regularly decided policy for the entire nation. She didn't have to hear to know the upshot and the import of their conversation. 

It seemed mere moments later, although it must have been most of an hour, when the federal judge finally arrived: a tiny, middle-aged woman, Bible in hand, maintaining a fair aplomb considering that they all knew what her next duty was expected to be. Charlie ushered her through at once. 

And during those few moments before the door closed again, sealing her out, Debbie detected what could only be the President's voice. 

When had he arrived? He must have come straight from the Cabinet Room and used the hall entrance to the Oval Office. 

She couldn't pick out actual words in that brief snippet, but his tone was sharp, angry. 

What had been the Cabinet's consensus? There was no such thing around here as a foregone conclusion - not anymore. 

Debbie had accepted from day one of her new posting that she would never know most of what went on inside this historical chamber situated right next door. Part of her job was to squelch all curiosity. 

Part of her nature was to probe mysteries. 

What on earth was happening, just a few short yards away? 

For once this night, no one phoned her. No one else entered reception, either. In fact, the corridor itself seemed deserted, or else _very_ still - and deserted it simply could not be. One might think that the entire White House was holding its collective breath. 

Then the door opened. At once Debbie's whole existence contracted to that aperture, aware of nothing else. 

In ominous silence, Charlie escorted the madam justice out. In equal silence, the madam justice took her leave. 

The chamber within was conspicuously silent as well. 

_What had happened?_ Had the dreaded deed by some miracle been aborted at the absolute last second? Or... 

Then the presidential aide inclined his head towards the executive secretary, inviting her at long last to join them inside. 

In nerve-racking silence, she preceded him. 

When a person walks into any room, an automatic instinct is to sweep it for other occupants. Leo. Josh. Toby. C.J. Will. The NSA. The Chairman. All standing stiffly in place, all looking tired and grim. 

Of course, no one had slept since Zoey first vanished, and it was now nearing seven in the morning. 

Others lingered about as well, people she didn't know. Six or so, all men, some Secret Service and some not. And one of those strangers - 

Debbie stopped short on the carpet. In a frisson of shock, she realized that she missed one face. She couldn't believe that she'd failed to notice sooner, but then this was his office. You just knew he would be here. 

For him _not_ to be here felt utterly and implacably wrong. 

And one of those strangers - stood behind his desk. 

Where no one else in the world was entitled to be. 

Even long-term Washington residents could not be expected to recognize every member of Congress on sight. Cabinet Secretaries, Whips, Senators, Speakers... there were just too many names, too many jobs. They had to do something particularly newsworthy, and fairly recently, to last in the public's infamous short-term recollection. 

Even so, _this_ stranger's identity could not possibly be in doubt. Kidnapped daughters, ransom notes, frozen legislation, federal judges, lack of a Vice President... despite all of Debbie's foreknowledge of catalysts and preparations and summons, everything came together in a swirling vortex of inescapable comprehension. 

She did not move, eyes wide. Everyone else in the room stared at her, with various levels of discomfort. 

Then, unable to resist, she turned towards the glass-paneled door leading out onto the Portico. The private executive route to the Residence. 

Surely she imagined it, but that door seemed to swing ever so slightly, as though from the memory of the last man to cross its threshold... when he left this office. 

_His_ office. 

He'd left. In total defiance of her last-ditch hope that, beyond all reason, he might be granted superhuman abilities and find another solution, he'd walked out of here. And he might never walk back in. 

The transfer of power had been almost as swift and clandestine for her as for the rest of the world. It was done, and they had no choice at all but to accept it. Until further notice. 

With a huge effort, she rotated back. 

Leo took it upon himself to say the fateful words - words that echoed and re-echoed in her brain. "Debbie Fiderer... President Walken." 


	2. In God We Trust 2

**In God We Trust**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Debbie Fiderer is a witness to all the repercussions of Zoey's kidnapping.  
**Written:** Sept, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set in, and post-ep to, “Twenty-Five” (4th season finale) 

PHASE II: THE ANCHOR 

> "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure."  
> (Hebrews 6:19)  
> 

~ HOUR 7 ~ 

A new day dawned over the nation's capital. 

"Dawned" might have been the accurate meteorological term, but for Washington, D.C. the sun didn't put in an appearance at all. An impenetrable cloud cover had crept upon the city and blanketed it, prolonging the night gloom and unleashing the kind of steady downpour that doesn't let up for hours. 

Weather patterns aside, this day technically started at midnight. In the White House, it began much later, with a swearing-in - a simple yet earth-shaking ceremony. For the rest of the city, and much of the country, it began later still, with a press conference of historical impact. It was a new day in more ways than one. In fact, it might not have been an exaggeration to declare this dreary morning the start of a new age as well. 

Public response encompassed the full range of emotions. There were those who just didn't care one way or another. There were those who at once started probing for any purchase by which they might obtain an advantage for themselves. There were those who displayed a morbid interest, wondering if they'd soon witness the remarkable event of a government's self-destruction. 

There were staunch defenders of Jed Bartlet, enraged that anyone would presume to supplant him. There were political opponents of Jed Bartlet, convinced that anyone could do a better job. There were sworn enemies of Jed Bartlet, thrilled to observe his displacement and his suffering. And there were personal supporters of Glen Walken, delighted to see him get this chance no matter the circumstances. 

Just as the only news on the networks a few hours ago was the kidnapping of the President's daughter, the only news at this point was the abdication of the President's authority. Debbie refused to watch this endless loop. She'd seen it once, and hoped never to sit through such an agonizing broadcast again. 

_How_ had the President managed to get through it himself? It takes an inner iron beyond most people's strength to give up this kind of responsibility, even for the noblest of reasons, and then to publicly defend that judgment before the world, all the while fighting not to cave in under a planet's mass of terror. 

The mood in the West Wing had shifted and mutated more times than anyone could count: from paralyzing shock at Zoey's abduction to haunting fear for her health and life; from shivers at this breach in the security upon which they all depended to grief for Agent Molly O'Connor's death; from deep sympathy for the First Couple's anguish to rising concern for the First Couple's welfare; from outrage at this attack upon their country to helplessness at their inability to fight back; from fresh admiration at the President's endurance against all of his adversities to reaffirmed support for all of his decisions; from disbelief at the President's final sacrifice on behalf of the nation to uncertainty for the nation's threatened future. 

Debbie had already seen quite a few of mood swings in this White House, but nothing prior compared to the atmosphere now - not even in the experience of employees who had been here far longer. The air quivered with a heady mix of unshifted allegiances and battle fury, as though they were dealing with a genuine invasion. Not a bad way to describe it, actually: they had been overrun, not by superior numbers, but by the force of law. Said law had provided them with help in this crisis, as it should - help that none of them wanted, help that many doubted they needed, yet help that they all had no choice but to accept. It was the best help they could get, and it would enable them to get the job done... but it still felt totally wrong. 

There were more than a few practical issues to address. When Bartlet first took office, those who became his senior staffers had also been on most of the campaign trail; they already knew him quite well. Everyone else in the White House had over four years to figure out his likes and dislikes, his habits and quirks. Now, without warning, everyone faced the challenge of adapting to a new President - which was what all this amounted to, no matter how you looked at it. It meant learning Walken's style, his attitude, his beliefs, the clues to be found in his features and posture and intonation... They had to start again from the ground up, and in the middle of a national emergency to boot. 

Then there was the little matter of adapting to Walken's personal staff as well. 

Debbie had already beheld some pronounced local displeasure on _this_ subject. Their new Commander-in-Chief had brought along three subordinates - all men, and obviously those he deemed his most trustworthy followers. Darrow, the ringleader, at once started styling himself Chief of Staff. So far he hadn't succeeded in provoking an actual fight; Leo had more important things to do and too firm a grasp of his own sense of self to let a blowhard like that under his skin. Josh, however, almost lost it at the first, and you could tell Toby was grinding his teeth against an equally explosive outburst. C.J. would have been right in there swinging with them if she hadn't faced opposition of her own: Julien seemed to believe that henceforth he and he alone would brief the press. If the potential consequences weren't so dire, she might well have let him try, just for the pleasure of watching the Press Corps flay him alive. Even Will, the least confrontational fellow around, squared off quite hotly against Brad's declared intention to keep the home team's hand out of any presidential speeches from here on in. 

This attitude was understandable; the trio of newcomers felt themselves to be very much on hostile turf, and their boss no less so. Naturally, they wanted to protect him and his interests from the perceived enemy. However, running the White House - and therefore the country - went beyond a petty territorial dispute. The West Wing staff had the experience and the clearance; their competitors simply did not. Even Walken couldn't change that overnight. If the Bartlet Team had to work with the former Speaker and his men, then the reverse also applied. 

Debbie did not feel personally threatened; her job was, after all, too menial in most people's eyes to be coveted. For once that really worked to her benefit. She remained at her post, a dutiful worker and a silent observer, in the perfect position to keep tabs on just about everything. 

Her observations grew as the hours trickled by. Walken was physically a very large man, especially compared to Bartlet and to Leo. His height and sheer bulk made it all the easier to intimidate others - a definite advantage right now, at least before the world, since this was one time when the United States could not afford to show any weakness. Then again, he compared less favorably to Bartlet's merry humor and natural charm with which he could put anyone at ease. As a politician, as a leader, as a personality, The Man won hands down. 

Still, everyone has an Achilles heel. And when the great are downed, the lesser must take up the torch. 

Debbie wrestled with her own resentment as though it were a living antagonist, clawing at her nonstop. For her, it wasn't political at all; it was purely personal. Like Charlie, like many of the support staff, and unlike the senior staff, she didn't care all _that_ much about party competition. The enmity between Democrats and Republicans seemed overblown most of the time - and especially in this crisis. All that mattered was bringing Zoey home and keeping the nation safe. Surely politics could take a back seat, just for once. 

~ HOUR 8 ~ 

"We need a new Speaker." 

Walken's voice rumbled through the Oval Office, as irresistibly as a train barreling down a track. Even seated, he seemed to loom over everyone else around. 

"Agreed." Leo did not hesitate. "The House can't function without one. They're meeting right now." 

Debbie noticed idly that someone had found a new executive chair. That high-backed leather throne was always custom-made for the incumbent of this great chamber. Walken could have managed with Bartlet's chair if he'd tried; they weren't constructed that flimsily. Instead he had demanded the same privilege as any other President, and no one pretended he wasn't entitled to it. So they'd raided the Cabinet Room and procured the seat built for the largest of the Secretaries, at least as a more comfortable stopgap measure. A new chair had already been requisitioned. This man did not allow grass to grow under his feet for long. 

His decision also regulated the Bartlet chair to one side - not in the way, yet still in full view. Its silent, untouched, untouchable presence constituted a vivid reminder that the _real_ President had every possibility and intention of returning to his job. 

"The new Speaker will also be the next in line to this office," Walken pointed out, leaning his elbows on the "Resolute" desk as though he owned it. His posture and his tone somehow made that line sound even more ominous. 

Leo's response was a bit slower this time. "Good point, sir." The idea of something happening to their hour-and-a-half-old Chief Executive unnerved everyone. Nobody wanted to go through this upheaval again - ever. Much less now. 

"And we need a new Vice President," Darrow announced eagerly, leaping to the next item that might well assist in consolidating the Republican power grab. 

Toby came close to a growl this time. "That can wait. The people deserve a say in _something_ around here." 

Josh couldn't resist adding his two cents. "Yeah. The House can't do without a Speaker, but we can do without a Vice President just fine." 

A brief, awkward silence fell. As usual, the Deputy Chief of Staff had put his foot right into the biggest cowpat around. He did have a valid point - the White House did not _technically_ need a Vice President in order to operate, as had been proven over just the past two weeks. It would, however, have a much easier time with its agenda when there was a VP, especially one who cooperated with the Administration. 

Plus, Walken wouldn't be here right now if there had been an official runner-up to the Presidency. The Bartlet Team could blame John Hoynes if they wanted, but they deserved some liability themselves for delaying in the selection of his successor. 

"The President Pro Tempore of the Senate is the next candidate," Will pointed out, trying to deflect the conversation away from one very touchy subject. 

"He's not eligible." Clearly Walken had thought about this himself. "He was living in Greece for a while some twelve years back. Constitution says you have to live in the U.S. for fourteen years minimum, uninterrupted." 

From her stance to the side, jotting notes in a steno book, Debbie got the distinct impression that the very light in this room seemed to be avoiding its new occupant. The Oval Office had great illumination, the shadows soft and soothing. After all, it needed to shed both literal and figurative light on the tangled affairs of state. Yet Walken seemed to attract those shadows, so that they fell upon his heavy jowls and high cheekbones, all of which accentuated the hard facial planes and made him look more imposing, more immovable than ever. 

Also, he hadn't so much as cracked a grin yet. His face was closed and his eyes were cold. 

"Which brings us to the Secretary of State." C.J. tried not to keep the relief out of her words. Every member of the Cabinet was, of course, a Democrat. 

"Only until a new Speaker is elected," and Brad made no attempt at all to mask the gloating in _his_ words. A vote in the House now, with its Republican majority, would mean another Republican Speaker. 

As an added twist, if Walken stayed in office long enough to nominate a Vice President personally, that individual would certainly be from his own party as well. This could become a complete turnover in the Executive Branch. 

Even as that appalling idea cannoned through the minds of the home team, Walken settled possessively back in his chair until it creaked in protest. "All right. Enough domestic issues for now. We'll let the House solve its own problem first." Easy for him to say; the odds were their decision would back him up. "Let's get focused on the foreign situation. That's where the real problem is." 

Towards the rear and safely beyond notice, Debbie frowned. Wasn't the real problem Zoey's abduction, and the need to find her captors? From the uneasy glances flying between her four colleagues, they thought so as well. 

~ HOUR 9 ~ 

"Debbie." Donna quick-marched into reception, almost exactly the same way she had some six hours ago. 

The executive secretary's head bobbed up so fast she almost got a crick in her neck. "Hey, Donna. Glad you're here. I've had a thought." 

"Yes?" 

"But you go first. You must've come by for a reason." 

"No, it's all right. Go ahead." Donna could be surprisingly assertive when she wanted or needed to, but she always knew when to step back and grant others some space: space to move, to think, to speak. It made her seem deceptively delicate - a deception that emphasized those moments of assertiveness all the more. 

"Well, you and I both know that none of our people are going home anytime soon." Debbie's use of "our people" suggested both a division in the ranks and a consolidation of the faithful, both of which were true. Her prediction of the overtime hours to follow showed her growing knowledge of the depths to their comrades' loyalty. 

"Batting a thousand on that one," Donna agreed wholeheartedly. 

"And only some of the senior staff offices have couches. So I was wondering if we couldn't set up a temporary dorm or something below deck." Debbie shrugged, eminently practical. "There are so many rooms in this building; surely we can find a corner or two that no one else will need over the next while." 

Donna's gentle smile lit up her face. "Great minds think alike." 

Debbie blinked. "There's already a crash pad set up?" 

"I just finished it." Josh's assistant didn't sound the least bit smug at her prescience. "We had to do this once before, during the... revelation." 

She didn't blush with pleasure at her own initiative, and she didn't need to extrapolate any further. Her sudden downcast expression said enough. There had been only one revelation in this Administration that overshadowed all others. 

The executive secretary got the idea, and swung onto another angle - one of more current concern. "I'm not trespassing on your domain, am I?" She could not forget that, though she technically ranked highest among the support staff, she was still a relative newcomer. 

"Oh, no! I just wanted you to know about it, in case you'd like to take advantage of the option yourself." 

Pause. "That's kind of you. But I've already sent Nancy home for a bit of sleep. She'll spell me off later." 

Donna waved a dismissive hand. "You'll spend more time traveling than sleeping. Both of you can feel free to bunk below for a nap any time you need it." 

Debbie appreciated this offer, a sure sign that she had been fully accepted into the elite circle of the President's closest people. "Thank you. I would prefer to stay on site." 

"We'd rather have you here, too." Donna was gazing towards the shut portal to the Oval Office; she missed the look of amazement that crossed the executive secretary's face. "We really need to keep on top of this." 

That vote of confidence spawned Debbie's first sensation of pleasure and optimism today. The subsequent observation prompted her to probe the limit of the more open links between all staff members in this emergency. 

"The news has a lot to say about troop movement, bigger and faster all the time, but only in the most general terms. That's almost more terrifying than the ugly details. Of course foreign correspondents and satellites don't have the inside scoop from the Situation Room..." She trailed off, just a bit hopefully. How much did Donna know, and how much of that could she share? 

The assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff picked up on this subtle plea, and fell right in with the script - yet another endorsement of trustworthiness from the Bartlet Team. "I'm afraid the troop movement is only going to increase. The President -" and you knew whom she meant by the clear respect in her tone "- started it, of course, but slowly and carefully. Josh says the _Acting_ President -" a not-so-subtle stress shift there "- is so gung-ho that he's starting to make Fitzwallace a bit nervous." 

Debbie pondered this wealth of information and implication. "The Chairman and the NSA _seemed_ to be right behind their new Commander-in-Chief." The presence of Fitz and Nancy McNally at the swearing-in proclaimed that. "Now it sounds like there's a rift - and in the highest ranks of the military at that. Just what we needed." 

"What we need is someone whose judgment we can trust," Donna almost whispered. 

Debbie cocked her head, balancing variables. "If the news is at all accurate, there are a few nations we both could name that are already moving to take advantage of our situation, right?" 

"Right..." 

"Then a crack-down is pretty much the only option we have. Sounds to me like we have someone with, if not better, at least less compromised judgment at the moment." 

Slowly, Donna nodded in comprehension. "You couldn't expect the President to concentrate on foreign squabbles at a time like this." 

"No, you couldn't. And he _didn't._ That's why he stepped aside." Debbie rested her chin on one hand, keeping her somber vision aimed at her companion. "President Walken got dumped into the deep end with no time to prepare, either in experience or in mindset. He's suddenly gone from mediating the House of Representatives - which concentrates mostly on domestic affairs - to confronting the most severe international dilemma of the year." 

This analysis got Donna's mind churning. "You think he's overcompensating?" 

"Maybe. I just think it's not too surprising that he's trying so hard to clamp down on the foreign threats, large or small. They're the most obvious danger to the nation he now has to lead. He's not used to looking at a picture quite this big." 

Josh's assistant nibbled nervously at her lower lip. "Let's hope he's a fast learner." 

~ HOUR 10 ~ 

"Well, you're still surviving your briefings." Debbie arched a deadpan eyebrow at the Press Secretary as she walked in. 

"Julien's the only one who's more disappointed than you are," C.J. riposted with a straight face. Her eyes danced just a bit, though. She nodded towards the closed white door. "Is this a bad time?" 

"Another couple of minutes; he's got the new Speaker in there right now." 

"Oh, by all means let's interrupt _that._ " C.J. tried not to sound too sour on the matter. "One more hurdle that the _real_ President will face when he returns to office." 

Every member of the senior staff fiercely refused to believe that Bartlet might not be back - but the Press Secretary seemed to be having the hardest time with _any_ hiatus. Debbie had formed her own conclusions, based both on hearsay and on shrewd observation. Toby and Will had promptly endorsed the decision to step aside, a decision made by a President who at the time was more father than leader. Josh, the most militant political animal of the four, had been somewhat slower to come around, but come around he did. C.J. still persisted in lingering on the fence... perhaps because Bartlet's relationship was even more paternal with her than with the others. Her protective instincts towards him had an even deeper emotional element. 

Now C.J. searched for another topic to distract them both. "While we're waiting, here's the latest..." 

These last few hours had radically altered Debbie's role in the White House. Both senior and support staff members came to her with any new information, and checked constantly with her on Oval Office events and temperaments. She'd become the unofficial clearing-house for the entire West Wing; everyone brought her their news, knowing that she would in turn brief them as events developed. Nothing like this had been in her job description or her training, but she welcomed her expanded duties eagerly. This way they all contributed to a unified front against the adversary elevated into their very midst. 

The two viewpoints dovetailed perfectly. She was constantly aware of Walken's activities. He could do almost nothing without her knowledge, however much he might like to try. Her long-established responsibilities demanded that she always know where he was. She couldn't hear and _shouldn't_ hear what was actually said inside that Office, of course, but just knowing who's dropped by provided the foundation for many valuable conclusions and preparations. In this way all employees were better informed, and better equipped for whatever might come next. By default she provided an essential link between the boss and the staff - supposedly _his_ staff - with or without his knowledge, and probably with his suspicion. 

It didn't sound very loyal when you put it that way... but this was a House under siege. And not just besieged by Walken & Co., either. 

C.J. leaned against Debbie's desk and folded her arms, looking both angry and self-satisfied. "I'm still trying to find out how anyone got hold of those family videos to begin with. They should never have been aired. It's disgusting, that level of exploitation." 

"Concurred." Debbie fulfilled her role as a sympathetic ear quite well; far better, in fact, than almost any of the staff would have thought before yesterday. She'd never make a diplomat, but right now her tendency to say exactly what she thought worked with them all. 

"A lot of other citizens think so, too - and don't even ask about the rest of the staff. Anyway, most stations have already pulled the clips, and the others will follow suit in a hurry if I have any say. I also plan to wring a public apology out of every single one of them." The Press Secretary's eyes snapped. She knew how to wage war as well as any of her male colleagues. This had been her crusade, on behalf of the Bartlets, and she could almost taste the victory. 

"Go for it." C.J. didn't need encouragement from Debbie or anyone else, but the executive secretary provided it just the same. Imagine how Zoey would feel about those private moments from her childhood being aired for all the world to see? 

The door latch clicked as someone prepared to exit the Oval Office. C.J. drew herself up to attention at once, fitting the carefully neutral mask of her job back into place. No matter how uncomfortable that mask might be, she had to wear it. 

"Thanks," Debbie offered, _sotto vocce._

"See you later." That was a promise. As soon as more data came through, it would find its way here. 

~ HOUR 11 ~ 

Not even the watchdog of the West Wing could stay at her desk indefinitely. Reassured that Nancy was back and right at hand, Debbie had seized on a trip to the ladies' room. A splash of cold water on her face helped keep her own weariness at bay, at least for the moment. 

She stepped back into the hall - 

"Debbie." 

The voice was low yet sudden, the presence unseen and unexpected. An electric current shot straight up her spine; somehow, she managed not to jump. No one would be critical of a case of nerves today, but she didn't like to appear jumpy at any time. Especially not to this person. 

She turned slowly, her dignity intact. "Do you count lurking outside washrooms as one of your favorite habits?" 

Toby bore her rebuke calmly, just as he ignored whatever he felt did not merit a response. "It does break up my day." 

"It also spares you from loitering outside the Oval Office, either for instructions or for news." She wasn't fooled. He hadn't sought out her sparkling company for any old reason. This had to be the least demonstrative person in the District of Columbia... after her, of course. 

Hands in pockets, one shoulder holding up the wall, Toby didn't shift under her scrutiny. "No sense giving the visiting team any extra reason to suspect our loyalty." Having offered that nod to the unpleasant truth, he swung straight into business. "I heard a rumor that the drug dealer's been found dead." 

Debbie enjoyed this rare treat of the taciturn Communications Director coming to her for any kind of assistance. Toby never took kindly to what he perceived as an encroachment upon his territory, whether that applied to the Communications Department, the White House in general, or his reigning status as the chief sourpuss. Likewise, the executive secretary didn't welcome being force-fit into an established mold for the sake of another's sensibilities. 

Plainly put, they were too much alike. They both cultivated an impression of withdrawn solitude, even downright surliness, and for the exact same reason: armor. It was inevitable that each would see the other as a competitor. 

But they were on the same side now, with a common objective. They always had been, of course... today just brought that fact into full focus. 

"You heard correctly." Debbie didn't hesitate to confide in him - not about this. 

He sighed and looked down. "So. Leo was right on the money. As usual. And there goes another piece of evidence." Frustration visibly gnawed at him. "Took the Service long enough to find him." 

She rolled her eyes. "Dead men tell no tales. They're also harder to ID." 

This time Toby did not reply, his shadowed eyes turning towards something no one else could see. When he really went after a goal, political or personal, he refused to take prisoners. Beyond a doubt, this goal ranked very high indeed... and suddenly Debbie had a fresh inspiration as to why. 

"By the way, congratulations." She hadn't had the chance to speak to him before this, but the news of the Wyatt-Ziegler twins had circulated as rapidly as one would expect, crisis notwithstanding. It provided the sole bright point to this relentless nightmare. 

Now he looked embarrassed. Watching closely, Debbie caught a glimpse of a very rare softness to this man's guarded vision. 

"Yeah, thanks." He looked down, shuffling his feet. "But... it doesn't feel right, somehow, to... you know... celebrate." 

Debbie re-engaged her argumentative mode. "Because Zoey is missing, and Agent O'Connor is dead." She knew what Toby's daughter had been named, and no one had to explain why. In this case, she most definitely did not want to even chance mistaking the two identities. "So we have three sets of parents: one pair that's distraught, one pair that's bereft... and one pair that has every right in the world to rejoice." 

Sure enough, this lecturing tone ruffled every quill in Toby's prickly image. "I _know_ it's illogical to feel guilty. But since when does logic have anything to do with this madness?" He braced for combat. "Do _you_ have any children?" 

She had to work hard not to flinch. "No." 

"Well, then. That leaves Leo and me as the only other parents in the immediate vicinity. _We_ can at least partially understand what the Bartlets are going through." 

Debbie's tone sharpened. "The rest of us don't have to understand to sympathize. Be that as it may, I have my share of honorary nieces and nephews. I've seen friends weep with worry over how their children's lives might turn out. But worry alone doesn't make them regret their choice. Do you think the O'Connors regret raising Molly and watching her grow up to help others? Do you think the President and the First Lady are wishing they'd never had Zoey in the first place, just so that she wouldn't have been exposed to this risk?" 

For once in a long, long while, at least to the knowledge of the White House staff, Toby Ziegler seemed at a loss for words. He recovered quickly, though. "You are most definitely in the wrong job." 

"I'm not so convinced of that." Especially if it provided opportunities like this. "Just the same, thanks for the compliment." 

He hesitated, becoming almost introspective. "I seem to be saying this about a lot of people today, but you're right. Children are our hope. Every child we raise well is one more bit of insurance for a bright future." 

Debbie allowed a bittersweet smile. This man was a writer through thick and thin. 

Out of death, life. She chose not to put it quite like that, though. And she sincerely hoped that Toby would not feel obliged to name his next daughter Zoey. 

Turnabout is fair play; now _she_ wanted something from _him._ Her point of view from reception was rather limited in some aspects. "Meanwhile, what's the mood in the rest of the country? Any decent person would be shouting foul at the least." 

Toby rose to the occasion at once, clearly relieved to get away from the discomfort of debating his emotions. "Oh, yeah. Most of the world is united in outrage. Except for the totally unprincipled, of course. There's always someone who hates authority - who confuses necessary questioning and challenge with just plain destructive defiance." His exhalation bordered on an ironic chuckle. "Funny thing is, even the more radial groups aren't all cheering." 

Debbie let out a snort. "I see. Venting your anger against the President, even violently, is okay in some eyes - but harming an innocent child is not." 

"Don't let Zoey ever hear you call her a child," Toby warned seriously. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched in an aborted grin. 

"I won't." If only they got the chance to run that risk again... 

Then Debbie's voice dropped to a positively gentle level. "How is Congresswoman Wyatt doing?" 

"Uh..." He had to change gears, again straying reluctantly towards personal terrain. "Recovering. On a bit of an emotional see-saw, too." 

"No doubt. Give her my regards. These are her first children as well, right?" 

Even paternal pride had a hard time making inroads through Toby's gruff exterior. Perhaps, with time, he'd adapt to it. "Yeah." 

The executive secretary paused, then allowed a private element of her soul to escape. "Tell her - that I'd give a lot to be in her shoes right now." 

~ HOUR 12 ~ 

"Excuse me." 

Debbie turned from her computer, rather surprised that she had become so engrossed in her tasks as to not notice the approach of others. She felt no real surprise, though; she knew Will's voice, and she'd known that he was due to speak to Walken at some point around noon. True to his training and his habits, he'd arrived right on time. 

He had not, however, come alone. Like Leo and C.J., he could not go very far without his Walken shadow. 

There were only three of these virtual immigrants, but all of them had developed two very annoying habits: showing up without warning, and hovering around where they most definitely weren't wanted. Just like flies, and just as heartily disliked. 

They also wore their new status like medals, as though they'd earned such awards themselves: " _We_ work for the _real_ President." 

"Yes, gentlemen?" Debbie presented a careful, neutral image; she had no desire to come under suspicious scrutiny herself. Let these rookies forget her presence and chat within her hearing range. She could be of much more help to the White House in general and to the Bartlet Team in specific if she was overlooked, invisible - or, when she was noticed, if Walken's men thought of her as an impartial mediator rather than firmly entrenched on the other side. 

Will had much the same idea. He phrased his words cautiously, determined not to let anything slip out in certain company that could be twisted around and used against them all. "Hi, Debbie. You've met Brad?" 

"Of course." She didn't quite smile; she almost never did. Let conclusions be drawn; she didn't care _that_ much what the invaders thought. "President Walken is in the Situation Room; he should be back in a few minutes." 

She'd improved on the use of that title, if only through sheer practice. It still didn't come easily, though, and required conscious thought to get it right. 

"He's expecting us. We've got some fresh oration on the Middle East stance." Will graciously included Brad in the credit. He really had no choice. 

"Your military experience is coming into its own." Debbie threw that out with studied carelessness, and she watched Brad obliquely. The way he and his pals acted, one would think the West Wing staff hadn't one redeeming character trait between them. 

Will resisted a grin. "Perhaps. I may be the only one around with that kind of training, after Leo, but my record's pretty minuscule by comparison. Besides, I'm low man on the senior totem pole, so I won't be asked for an opinion any time soon." 

Debbie cocked an eyebrow. "Of _course_ they'll ask you. Everyone counts towards the whole. This is no time to waste any assets we have on hand." 

Brad started to fidget - whether in irritation, frustration or guilt she couldn't tell. 

"Oh, we've got lots of other strategists available," Will said dismissively. Sure enough, Brad looked a little smug at that. "After all, this is a war." 

He paused for one extra calculated second, allowing Brad's ire to percolate just for the fun of it, before continuing his thought. "We're going to find those kidnappers and get Zoey home if it's the last thing we do." 

Both staffers pretended to miss Brad's deflation, in the hope that this message would sink in better if it wasn't applied too directly. The real enemies were not each other, but the kidnappers of the First Daughter. Territorial the White House certainly was, but today it had far bigger things at stake than ego jabs. 

Tiring of the act, Debbie gave the Deputy Communications Director a frank once-over. "As I recall, you're the only staffer who's had less time here than I have. You seem to be fitting in very well." 

He shrugged self-consciously. "Well, I am glad the hazing is over." 

They traded a glance of mutual comprehension. Both of them had replaced skilled, trusted, _beloved_ employees, but life moves ever onward. He'd finally been accepted... and so had she. 

They understood each other. 

Brad looked about ready to pitch into the conversation, if only to shift it towards a more interesting topic. He'd be a less than delightful contribution for sure, so Debbie beat him to the punch. 

"By the way, I heard that the first thing President Walken did when he arrived this morning was to ask about the First Lady. That was very considerate of him." 

There - that should allay any doubt Brad might have been harboring about her. 

Will clamped his mouth shut so as not to shatter this illusion. However, judging from his slight grimace, Debbie got the distinct impression that, in the eyes of the senior staff, Walken's thoughtful opener had thus far been his only saving grace. 

She fervently hoped he had others in store. 

~ HOUR 13 ~ 

The work slogged on, and the hours sped past... At times one wondered if this day would never end - and then one feared that it would end too soon, with not much done. 

When Margaret dropped by to deliver a fresh stack of paperwork, Debbie marveled at her brisk pace. "How many coffees have you had so far?" 

"I lost count some hours back." Leo's assistant looked weary, but then they all did. Her determination and her ability to stick it out had not diminished. They all felt the same way. It had become a bizarre contest to see who could endure the longest, a competition that drove them onward, keeping them sharp. 

"I've ordered up coffee for President Walken a few times already. That also gives me a chance to get my own." Debbie started sorting her newly-inundated in-box. "I can only imagine how much the President's had... and that sure won't help his blood pressure." 

Surprisingly, Margaret didn't leave at once. Usually she blew in and blew out, too rushed to spare more than half a dozen words. After a couple of elongated seconds, the executive secretary noticed this departure from the norm. 

"Is something wrong?" 

"Well, not as wrong as it could be." 

Debbie frowned. "How so? Because we're rather overdue for some positive news." 

Margaret glanced around surreptitiously, but not even Charlie was present. "This seems pretty positive to me - or at the very least entertaining. Team A and Team B almost came to blows a few minutes ago. Leo's spending a lot of his time playing umpire." 

Debbie sat very still, brain churning in confusion. "Team A and...?" 

From her colleague's expression, it couldn't be more obvious. "B for Bartlet. A, naturally, means -" 

"Acting. Got it." 

"I thought it would help if we clearly delineated the players." 

"You have entirely too much time on your hands." Maybe so, but a genuine Fiderer smile peeked out at last - and not just for these two newly-established franchises. A fistfight in the West Wing _would_ have been quite the sport to watch. Still, their general morale was under more than enough strain already. Thank God they had Leo's steadfastness to fall back on, no matter the provocation. 

Margaret must have heard that criticism before; it failed to perturb her. "Speaking of delineations, I really like the way you differentiate between the President and the _Acting_ President." 

Debbie's frown returned as she tried to follow this, and came up blank. "Oh? Come to think of it, I'm not even sure myself how I do it." 

"You always refer to our guest as President Walken." 

Pause. Debbie still didn't know where her colleague was going with this. "We do have to be polite. He was sworn in. He _is_ President, like it or not." 

"I know. It's just that you've been reserving a simpler 'The President' for _the_ President." 

It really was weird how one's mind could take the initiative without one realizing it. Now that this detail had been pointed out, Debbie saw how she'd instinctively developed her own way of keeping the two men straight in her mind, while still granting them the deference they deserved. After all, the President didn't need any extra identifier. 

"Really, it's a good method." Margaret insisted. "In fact, it's not all that different from how the British Royal Family used to operate." 

Now Debbie felt totally at sea. "Really?" 

"Sure. For fifty years they had Queen Elizabeth II and Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. Know how the staff around them kept things straight? They never used 'The Queen Mother' themselves; that was for people outside the inner circle. To her friends she was 'Queen Elizabeth', and her daughter is just 'The Queen'." 

Debbie's lips pursed. "Okay, I'm not sure I want to know how _you_ knew that. You are quite the repository of data at times." 

Margaret blushed. "Just don't tell the President. He'll want a trivia duel." 

Then she broke off, no doubt feeling bad about any humor during this horrid situation. 

"It might help take his mind off things," Debbie suggested quietly. 

Margaret shook her auburn hair in firm disagreement. "It wouldn't. Not even Leo has managed to help him there." 

Silence fell. If Bartlet's oldest friend was at such a loss... 

Debbie pursued this angle to its next logical point. "And how _is_ Leo doing?" 

Margaret sighed. After Jed Bartlet, she knew their Chief of Staff better than anyone in the House. 

"He's been in politics for over thirty years. He's known the President... for over thirty years." She paused. "This is the ultimate division of loyalties." 

She didn't have to say any more; Debbie got the point. By his nature, Leo defined both loyalty and duty. He had been placed in a position every bit as unbearable as the President himself. 

~ HOUR 14 ~ 

Charlie exited the Oval Office, closed its door and returned to his desk, flopping into his chair with a depressed sigh. 

Debbie studied him indulgently. She worked closest with him; by now she knew him better than most other staffers, just through constant association. 

Before last night, this young man had leaped up eagerly to answer the executive summons, and had almost regretted those moments when he was not needed to be right on hand. Even though the President often ran him ragged, kept him up late, and preferred to bellow for him rather than use the intercom, he never hesitated to obey. 

Between midnight and five AM, it had been less pleasure and more desperation that kept him on the go. Like the rest of them, he did everything he was asked to do, at once, and wished with all his being that he could do more. 

Since the swearing-in, though, the body man had shown a distinct reluctance to enter that chamber and serve the replacement who now occupied it. Naturally he persevered; it was his job, and it was still the best way he could contribute. 

But he didn't like it. He wanted to be with his _real_ boss, to back him up in his greatest trial, to stand by him personally and literally. By this point he must have felt that he owed more allegiance to The Man than to the office. 

If asked, The Man's response would have been predictable. At this time, with no work at all to do, he really didn't need a personal aide. Walken, shouldering the enormous burden of national and international leadership in Bartlet's stead, _did_ need one - in fact, more even than Bartlet would have had he stayed in office. Walken had no experience in this executive role at all. Walken needed guidance in the smallest matters as well as the biggest. Logically and administratively, Charlie belonged nowhere but here. 

Just the same, serving Walken probably felt like both an insult and a punishment, when in truth it was neither. Charlie couldn't possibly help the President any better way than to help his replacement. Charlie was needed to keep the office running properly, so that the crisis could be resolved that much sooner and the President could return - with his job, his health and his family intact. 

So Charlie served here, served a man he did not like... as much for the sake of Jed Bartlet as for the high office that Jed Bartlet no longer held. 

Debbie read all of this in the set to Charlie's shoulders and the pinch around his eyes, in his taut muscles and his clenched teeth. She agreed with him, too. Both of their jobs were difficult, but all the workload and stress couldn't possibly match up against their pleasure at serving their leader. Their _true_ leader, that is. 

One definition of duty is performing a task you do not enjoy, because others rely upon you to do it regardless. 

For now, Debbie pretended to be oblivious. If Charlie wanted to talk, he would. If not, there was plenty of work to distract them both. 

"They've got the preliminary police report." 

The executive secretary froze. Now she knew the deeper reason behind that dispirited sigh a few minutes ago. Then, slowly, she looked up. 

The personal aide to the President did not look up. His voice might as well have been directed towards the carpet. "Molly O'Connor was hit by a sniper. That means the kidnappers were lying in wait all along, with one of them on the roof." Pause. "They'd planned this a long time ago." 

Debbie's unfocused eyes flicked back and forth, as though processing lines of vital text that flashed rapidly before her. 

Words came to her, almost unbidden, as patterns tumbled into place. "If Zoey hadn't gone to the club last night, they would certainly have tried something else. Some _where_ else." Realization caused a fresh stab of horror. "She's been a target since long before this." 

~ HOUR 15 ~ 

Nancy all but staggered into reception, her arms full and her eyes bagged. Even though she'd been one of the lucky ones to sneak out for a nap earlier, the benefits were wearing off fast. She uttered no word of complaint, though, heading for the chair near Debbie's desk so that she could help sort the latest deluge of papers. 

Back in his own spot, Charlie offered a glance of empathy. Certainly _he_ hadn't slept yet. 

Neither had Debbie herself. All of them were visibly slowing down. If this kept up much longer, Leo's prediction - relayed through Margaret - of a band of dedicated staffers unable to lift their arms anymore would soon become reality. 

Debbie didn't mention that, or attempt to insist that everyone take a break. You can lead a horse to water... 

So, as she watched her own assistant sink wearily into the chair, she tried a different tactic. "We need more people." That way they could spread the work around and spell each other off more efficiently. "Is there no one else who's free to come in?" 

Nancy sighed. "I've been over the list four times. Everyone who's not sick or out of town is already here." She propped up her weighted head with both hands. "I have to say, too bad we can't draft the East Wing staff. They've got nothing at all to do." 

"Why _can't_ we?" Debbie demanded at once. 

Pause. Nancy and Charlie looked at each other in mild disbelief. Disbelief that anyone should even consider such an unthinkable option... or disbelief that they themselves hadn't thought of it sooner? 

Debbie had been around long enough to know about the inherent rivalry between the two separate sets of employees. She had even reached the stage where she understood some of it. However, she saw no point in adhering to traditional barriers and "No Trespassing" signs when it comes down to a matter of survival. 

"You mean _no one's_ asked them?" But she already had her answer. If Josh - and certainly Leo - had invited the First Lady's staff to cross the floor of the White House, they'd have been here post-haste. 

Of course, all of Team B (Margaret's moniker was making rapid inroads) had a great deal on their minds. It honesty might not have occurred to any of them. If they could control their tempers around Team A, which was a _real_ alliance under pressure, then they wouldn't cling to petty differences of opinion between the two poles of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 

Of course, someone needed to show some initiative. Debbie had three choices: interrupt Leo, waylay Josh... or take steps herself. 

It wasn't her business; it wasn't her place; it had nothing to do with her. 

"Hold the fort." She rose and headed into the corridor without a backward glance. A pity, perhaps; the expressions of both Nancy and Charlie might have been worth seeing. 

The activity level in the West Wing could best be described as frenetic: one thin inch from outright pandemonium. The White House proper, by contrast, managed to maintain most of its quiet dignity, despite the persisting "black" alert and the armed guards stationed absolutely everywhere. 

The East Wing... seemed shockingly still. 

Ever since the First Lady retreated - or was escorted - to the Residence, in what state no one wanted to imagine, her entire office had ground to a halt. Normally they faced their own ongoing work whether she was in town or traveling... much the same way the President's staff rolled endlessly onward no matter where _he_ went. Of course all meetings, all luncheons, _all_ appearances had been canceled for both of them. However, most of Abbey Bartlet's public functions revolved around such social activities; with their suspension, her employees found far less to do. They certainly weren't supposed to get involved in _real_ political issues - not unless specifically invited by the Other Side. 

This quiet, however, went even beyond that. It felt like no one dared move, lest they upset a delicate balance or drew unwelcome attention. Perhaps, after their boss's maternal instincts ran squarely counter to the political hardball game for her daughter's life, they feared to try anything without clear direction in case their actions made matters even worse for all three Bartlets. Debbie saw several administrators sitting around, none talking, all just waiting. 

She went straight to the office of the East Wing Chief of Staff. 

"Amy." 

The slim, stylish brunette jerked away from her reverie out the window. "Oh - Debbie! What brings you all the way over here?" 

"You. What's happening on _your_ spread?" Debbie glanced around; this office looked larger and more handsomely appointed even than Leo's. Of course the West Wing tended to cram its staff in tighter, and to push them harder. That left less room or inclination for luxuries. 

"Absolutely nothing." Amy threw a listless hand towards her door, encompassing the employees beyond. "Mrs. Bartlet doesn't need us; the Acting President doesn't _want_ us. Since he's divorced, there isn't even an interim First Lady. Just as well; I have no idea how they'd work _that_ out." She sat back and heaved a sigh. "Yeah, we're really useful right now." 

The mere thought of anyone crowding Abbey Bartlet's personal terrain defied conception - both that anyone would dare, no matter why, and that she'd tolerate anyone to try. But then, like her husband, the First Lady had more urgent issues on her mind for the nonce. Still, it was a genuine relief that their new Commander-in-Chief hadn't brought a wife with him as well - for more reasons than one. 

"Yes, you are." Debbie's blunt contradiction caught Amy off-guard. "It doesn't matter what President Walken thinks he wants or needs; we know better. We're as swamped as you are bored. Talk to Josh; he'll okay it." 

"I'm not calling Josh." Amy sounded immovable on that point, far more so than the White House version of the Berlin Wall really justified. "We have a... history." 

Ah, that explained a lot. She didn't quite blush, but her expression shifted from anger at past memories to pride that loathed admitting to dependence. According to the scuttlebutt, Josh and Amy had collided on several occasions, some romantic and some not so. As a strong and nervy figure in a prominent women's lobby group, she once went behind his back to the First Lady for a vote of support that he couldn't guarantee. She once jumped on a casual comment of his while they were both off-duty and rallied her troops against one of the Administration's private initiatives, causing no small political trouble in the process. He'd proceeded to get her dismissed as a result... and then he had been unwittingly responsible for her landing this assignment in the White House itself. 

"Screw it." Debbie knew there was a double entendre in there someplace - Amy's start and half-grin proved that - but she didn't care. "No one's going to slam the door during a state of emergency. If we can get along with the Walken team, then Josh can work with you, and you can work with him. So if you want to pitch in, then have at it. Everyone this Wing can spare, bring them along too. We'll keep you busy." 

As a rule, this bright female activist never backed down from a challenge. In fact, she was one of very few who could look Abbey Bartlet in the eye and say exactly what she thought, no matter how unwelcome... which had contributed hugely towards her appointment. She knew how to use toughness, shrewdness and style to full advantage. She also knew how to give ground where necessary, and how to find the advantage even in an apparent surrender. 

Amy rose smiling, eager to pull her weight and join the battle. "Anything's better than inaction. Of course I'd be happy to do a favor for the Bartlets. Besides," she added for good measure, "it's been awhile since the last time Josh owed me." 

Still, she did insert a caveat for what they were both about to do. "Talk about jumping the chain of command. I dare say we're both going to get into some little trouble." 

The executive secretary showed no concern. "If I always followed the party line, I wouldn't be here. Neither would you." They traded a nod of full endorsement. "Anyone who'd like to fire either of us can give it a try - afterwards. For now, we have work to do." 

~ HOUR 16 ~ 

As with all decisions of great import, there must afterwards come a reckoning. 

"Hey, the new Deputy Chief of Staff is in." Josh sauntered into reception. Judging from his tone, he had not meant himself. 

Those who didn't know him would have been charmed by his affable grin. Those who did know him would have taken warning from the combative glint in his vision. 

Charlie knew Josh quite well. However, Charlie wasn't present to offer advice. 

Debbie didn't even glance up at first. "Only because the Deputy Chief of Staff just arrived." She wanted to make it clear she wasn't after _that_ job. "I expected you half an hour ago." 

"We were getting President Walken set up in the Residence." Of course the Acting Chief Executive had to move into the White House, if only as a matter of security. There was no safer domicile in the world. 

Debbie didn't ask how anyone planned or hoped to maintain a decent residential buffer zone, but the Bartlets deserved that courtesy at the very least. Somehow, letting a replacement step into the Oval Office, while an invasion in itself, didn't feel half so rude as letting that replacement select a bedroom upstairs. 

"And wrangling desks for the Speakerphones." Debbie almost grinned; Josh could give Margaret some competition on comical nicknames. Meanwhile, scrounging office space for their three visitors must have been no picnic in itself. Next thing they knew, Leo, C.J. and Will would be served with eviction notices. Even so, Josh tried to make it sound like that detail hadn't demanded any real exertion of his abilities at all. 

Now he paused for impact, his humor fading, his eyes narrowing. "Not to mention finding tasks for the latest influx of _support_ staff." 

This time Debbie lifted her head. She made no attempt to avoid his bone of contention. "I'm not a diplomat, Josh, or a politician. I don't care about stroking egos or festering grudges or disruptive influences or keeping people in their preferred place. I'm a pragmatist, and this is a crisis. If you need help, you should get it wherever it can be found." 

She returned to her writing. "So long as this White House doesn't crumble around our ears before Zoey is rescued and the President is reinstated, I don't care what happens after. My employment status will be a minor detail." 

"Yeah." Josh's voice undertook a subtle change. "You see, unfortunately a lot of people want to agree with you." 

Now she raised just her eyes. 

He crossed his arms and rocked on his heels, a stance that resembled Jed Bartlet more than a little. "There's still a bit of a gray area between dodging the hierarchy and filling in the blanks. Around here, of course, the end justifies the means more often than not." Just like that, Josh had segued from angry supervisor to public supporter. 

Now Debbie put her pen right down. She wanted to hear him say it. 

"Anyway, I've managed to work a minor miracle and defer your court-martial to a later date." Now he acted like he'd been her sole defender, and risked his life in the process. This young man was a sharp political operator, but he could still be so boyish at times. 

That wasn't quite what she'd had in mind for a word of thanks, but she could tell that he'd gotten over her breach of etiquette and weighed in on her side. "That was uncommonly kind of you." 

He shrugged modestly, then changed the subject. Clearly that was as close as he intended to come to praising her actions. "I have to go in." He hooked a thumb at the closed white door nearby. 

"You can't." 

He stiffened, oscillating between amazement and irritation. 

Debbie revealed a mischievous sparkle of her own. "And not for any of the reasons that have kept you out in the past." Or, to be more accurate, that she had used to keep him out. "President Walken is meeting with his three hit men right now." 

"Ah." Josh slumped in place, his crushed-puppy look very much in evidence. "Getting the dope on how Team B is behaving, no doubt." 

The executive secretary shook her head. "That label has really taken off." 

"Anything sports-related finds a firm foothold around here." 

"So it would seem." She relaxed in her chair, studying him far less abrasively now. He reflected the appraisal in silence, probably wondering what this enigmatic employee had in mind next. 

"Tell me, Josh: what's _your_ take on our new leader?" 

The question went deeper than it seemed at first. Debbie wanted to know about motives, skills... intentions. 

Josh paused, gauging his response carefully. Then he stepped back until he could lean against Charlie's unoccupied desk. 

"I have to admit, he makes a fairly effective leader in a tight spot. More pugnacious than I personally like - but then we _need_ pugnacious right now. He's getting the job done, too. It's a very clear message to the world that the U.S. is perfectly capable of standing its ground against _any_ kind of assault." 

Debbie nodded her comprehension. "The government is functioning exactly the way it's designed to do." 

"For sure - internationally." Here Josh hesitated, not sure how revealing he should become, on either the official stance or his private opinion. "I wish I could say the same for the home front. We've got some very nervous Democrats right now. Of course the Republicans are predictably ecstatic." 

Debbie had little patience for partisan follies, as she saw them. "Nobody can ignore that this is expected to be the shortest Presidency in American history! In fact, anyone with a speck of decency should be _hoping_ it will be!" 

"Yeah, those are the odds we're playing right now. The Republicans sure don't have much time to advance their own agendas - but that won't stop some people from trying." Josh looked so depressed that she had to resist the urge to pat him on the head in condolence. "At the very least, they're planning for next time." 

Next time being if Walken ran for President on his own merit? With the knowledge and experience he was gaining right now, he'd be the logical party candidate, and the logical voters' choice... assuming he didn't screw up along the way. 

Logic and politics tended to be mutually exclusive. Still, that unusual combination would make anyone sit up and listen. 

"To his credit, our new boss hasn't shown any hints of yielding to the same temptation - yet. Then again, it's not like he's had any time to spare." Josh ran a hand through his already unruly hair, and stifled a yawn. 

Debbie noted to herself that, of the senior staff, only Josh and C.J. had raised party divisions around her so far today. Toby was better at seeing past that line in a tight spot, and Will just didn't let it bother him as much. 

"I imagine the nation as a whole is relieved to have a strong leader, come what may," she mused, almost to herself. "One who's able to defend us effectively, besides providing a constitutional way of easing the President's pain at least a little." 

"Sure - but if only he was one of _ours!_ " 

"And what will happen when the President finishes his last term?" she challenged. 

Plainly Josh didn't like to contemplate that thought, either. On that day, any personal control would permanently pass out of the senior staff's hands, after eight years of being _in_ control. 

He took the only out he had. "Then we just vote." 

"A Republican candidate will get elected eventually; your party can't hold out forever. And I say, better a Republican who can do the job than a Democrat who can't." 

He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. And then exhaled. "Fair point." Put that way, he had no grounds for rebuttal. 

He cast a bleak gaze towards that closed door. "It's just that... all of us..." 

Debbie gave him a moment, then finished the thought. "All of us don't want to see _anyone_ except President Bartlet in the Oval Office. Which is perfectly understandable." 

Josh's features took on an even more youthful glow. "You got that right. No one can measure up to _him._ " 

~ HOUR 17 ~ 

The room was black, with no windows to let in the dim light of a thoroughly wet day. It also had little ventilation and even less space. However, it served the same purpose as a nun's cell: providing privacy and a flat surface in order to rest. Nothing more was really needed. 

Debbie lay on the simple cot, fully dressed, a blanket draped up to her shoulders, and concentrated on sleeping. She needed sleep badly, at least a _little_ sleep; she wouldn't get another opportunity anytime soon. 

To her acute annoyance, sleep didn't cooperate. This was the first chance she'd had to rest her head since she arrived at work yesterday morning, over thirty-six hours ago, and now she couldn't doze off at all! 

Perhaps "concentrating" on sleep was her mistake. Her mind refused to relax. She'd been wound too tightly for too long to just relax on command. Granted, most people had trouble sleeping in the middle of the day, but sheer exhaustion should have made it easier. 

She had no legitimate cause for concern during this hour. Nancy was in reception. Walken had finally been persuaded to take a nap as well, allowing everyone on Team B to heave a giant sigh of relief; surely he couldn't cause trouble for them or for the nation while he himself was asleep. The Situation Room stayed at high alert, naturally. Some of the support staff and at least a couple of the senior staff likewise remained on duty, so that they could respond instantly just in case, but almost everyone else had seized this brief window with both hands. 

Debbie hoped the others would emerge more rested than she was going to be at the present rate. She exhaled heavily and tried to stop her brain from churning in ceaseless circles. 

She wondered how many cubbyholes had been set up like this one. The White House and both Wings had countless rooms between them, most of which would not be used in a crisis. She couldn't see maintenance workers spreading mattresses across the floor of the enormous State Dining Room or right underfoot in the well-trafficked Cross Halls, but virtual closets like this one were made to order. They'd probably figured out the mechanics of it during the long strategy days prior to the MS disclosure, even though that marathon had been confined mostly to the senior staff and their closest assistants. It hadn't taken long to prepare beds for everyone, and all without going anywhere near the Residence. 

Debbie reminded herself angrily that when this hour ended, not only was she due back at work, but someone else would be waiting for his or her turn to flake out here. She sighed at the further depressing idea that this would probably be the closest she ever came to being an overnight guest at the White House. 

Her mind stubbornly returned to her job. Nancy had worked here longer, but she didn't have the concentrated training that the President's personal secretary needed to go through. The Maxwell School's crash course did exactly that: crash down on you with a tremendous load of very diverse information in very little time. Still, Nancy would manage just fine for short intervals like this... and should something really blow open, she'd be able to call her supervisor upstairs in short order. 

Even so, Debbie considered it her direct and personal responsibility to stand guard over the Oval Office, and over its temporary incumbent. If something new did break, she needed to be there at once. Being summoned from the basement of the East Wing, scrambling to respond, and trying to clear her head of sleep-induced cobwebs would all take precious minutes. 

But she wouldn't do her job a lick of good if she couldn't keep her eyes open for sheer fatigue. Maybe she should consider taking a few uppers - just to help her stay alert and get through this. No one in the House would openly condone such a method... but like Josh said, the ends usually justified the means. She'd be willing to risk public disapproval afterwards if it would help her to help the President even more right now. 

No. Not only would The Man totally frown upon any kind of drug usage for any reason, but he wouldn't want Debbie to risk either legal repercussions or physical harm to herself. Not even for his sake. He was that kind of man. 

Besides, while the pills would keep her awake, might they also impair her judgment? 

Then there were two other trivial facts to consider as well: Leo had his own drug history... and drug abuse had led directly to Zoey's abduction in the first place. 

Suddenly, even a relatively harmless upper lost all appeal. 

Of course, Debbie wouldn't even consider it in the first place if she could just _sleep!_

Now that she thought about it, the First Couple probably hadn't slept yet either. If she was having trouble, imagine _their_ difficulty. 

No one had had _any_ idea what to say to Bartlet after he stepped down. Even the news of his MS couldn't have compared for sheer discomfort. That might have been an additional reason why, except for the joint press conference shortly after Walken was sworn in, the President had virtually barricaded himself inside the Residence ever since. This way, he didn't have to face anyone else's turmoil. 

Except his wife's, that is. 

If the worst came to the very worst, what would happen next? If Zoey died, what impact would it have on the First Couple? Could Abbey bring herself to resume her social program, while forever mourning a young life that had been such a critical part of her? Could the President hope to resume his vital responsibilities without second-guessing himself every time, fearing to create another enemy just as unprincipled? Would either of them suffer a breakdown in health from the merciless grief? Might they choose instead to withdraw from the public eye altogether, rather than risk a similar nightmare descending upon another of their children? 

If Bartlet didn't return... well, Debbie didn't much care who took his place. All of the skill and wit and intelligence and compassion that he had brought to the most powerful office around... would be gone. 

If a twenty-three-year-old woman died, what impact would it have on the _world?_

Now _really_ annoyed at herself, Debbie shook off these defeatist images. Every law officer in the capital region, not to mention the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA and the Army, was looking for the First Daughter. They would find her. They _had_ to find her, _alive._ Any other option was simply too horrific to contemplate. In the meantime everyone had to pull together, keep working, keep hoping, and keep praying. 

The hope, the _faith,_ must not be allowed to die. If it did, then so would they. 

Church and State... In God we trust... 

Yes... trust... together... 

~ HOUR 18 ~ 

Few things could be as frustrating as doing a job for someone when that someone didn't want you around and would gladly be rid of you, if they could only figure out how. 

Debbie stood near one corner of the "Resolute" desk and watched Walken work. She kept her notebook ready; every now and then he would fire off a terse command, and she wanted to make sure she wrote it down verbatim, so that no one could come back later and say she hadn't followed orders. 

He needed her administrative assistance, but he must have felt that keeping her present allowed her to check up on _his_ work in turn. Most of the time he didn't even grace her with a glance, despite her being the only other person in the room. 

Jed Bartlet never made a habit of intimidating people with his substantial title; usually he preferred logic, charm and humor. Debbie had refused to back down the one time he _did_ try the political muscle thing with her. (He probably respected her more as a result, too.) In like manner, she refused to be intimidated either by Glen Walken's new status or by his considerable size, nor did she go out of her way to curry his good favor. Some folks would consider this properly professional; others would see it as insulting. 

Surely no West Wing employee felt an obligation to suck up to their short-term boss. They all gave him their best effort without being asked; he required it and deserved it. There was no point pretending they liked him as much as the President; he wouldn't be the only one to disbelieve them. If they started fawning over him, he'd get suspicious. He might not have their affection, but he had their service. Even he didn't have the right to ask for more. 

That approach went for the executive secretary as well. She stood by, at his beck and call, prepared to obey his edicts - within reason. 

Debbie needed a pretty high security clearance of her own to be allowed anywhere near the reports on that desk right now. She noted that Josh had been right: Walken was concentrating almost exclusively on foreign matters. He seemed content to leave Zoey's rescue to the local experts, centering his efforts on matters that no one else could address. 

It made a degree of sense - let the experts get on with their jobs, and make sure they had the resources to do those jobs right. 

Another way of interpreting this would be that he didn't care if the First Daughter was ever found, just so long as he himself remained right here. In charge. 

Debbie's judgment of human character didn't peg him as quite that heartless. He certainly did have a lot to do on the international front right now, whereas he really couldn't give the search efforts any personal help. 

Still, some interest once in a while, even a single question on what progress had been made towards tracking the kidnappers, would go down very well. 

She glanced idly out the window towards the South Lawn. The sun had never broken through at all today, and now the thick cloud cover ushered in a premature dusk. It fit their moods perfectly; they were wrapped in a perpetual night, with no dawn in sight. 

And out there in that miserably wet evening, countless people continued to search for one young woman in an urban jungle of millions. 

At least Debbie had managed _some_ sleep. Coffee plus anxiety still remained the prime sources of fuel, for her and many others. 

By contrast, Walken seemed remarkably refreshed, pouring over these vital briefs with unfeigned enthusiasm. Perhaps _his_ fuel was the rush of pure political power. Or the adrenaline rush of trying not to freak out and think too much of where he was sitting right now... and just how many people were watching him. 

She wondered what he thought of the phenomenally complex situations he now faced, the staggering worldwide scope of every decision he would make. She wondered how much he really understood of the diplomatic and military jargon he was told. 

She wondered how much he was told in the first place. 

She recalled that, all during her time here, there would be a slight jump in nervousness whenever someone mentioned Qumar or Abdul Shareef - especially around the President, the Chief of Staff, and lately the senior staff as well. She had no idea of the details, naturally, but they had obviously been working towards either accomplishing or preventing something... and considering the tenuous international relations involved, that something had to be very delicate indeed. There had also been rumblings in the news over several months about the aggressive Bahi terrorist cell. And now certain regimes had decided to openly test the American resolve while its executive hierarchy appeared so shaken. 

How would Walken deal with these factions? Would he fall in with Team B's established plans, founded upon time and experience and past agreements... or would he start on his own intentions and deals? Would he even be informed of the existing arrangements? Would they _have_ to brief him fully? He was supposed to be _temporary,_ a stopgap measure until Bartlet could return to the helm, reestablish full control and resume business as usual. If Walken wouldn't have time in the end to take his own steps, then would they choose to inform him of steps already taken - steps that as Speaker he never would have been told? 

On the other hand, he did take the oath. For anyone in the White House to withhold vital information from the Oval Office, regardless of who occupied it, would compromise the government - and quite possibly the nation. 

Debbie gave up on the confusing equation. She was no constitutional expert. She'd let those with the real knowledge call the shots, trusting that they knew best. 

"Tell the NSA: I want a security briefing in the next half-hour." Walken still didn't bother to look at her; he just growled his instructions over one broad shoulder. 

"Yes - Mr. President." She scolded herself for still stumbling over his new title now and then. No doubt he noticed, too. Even something so small, so innocent, would not improve his attitude, and attitude made both cooperation and success a whole lot easier. 

"Tell Leo I'll see him immediately afterward." 

"Yes, Mr. President." She sounded like a parrot, but then she could use the practice anyway. 

"And tell him not to bring the rest of the senior staff. This will be classified." 

Debbie paused for just one heartbeat. 

"No, Mr. President." 

Silence. 

_Now,_ at last, he turned. Again, the shadows seemed to cling to his face and darken his eyes even more. 

"That was an order, Mrs. Fiddler." 

No one likes to have their name mangled, but under many circumstances Debbie would have let such a simple slip pass. Especially since the mistake had been made by her Commander-in-Chief, who had known her for barely half a day. However, this was not a time to grant said Commander-in-Chief any leeway. "Fiderer, sir. And I'm trying to be helpful. I strongly feel that this order is one you would later regret." 

Walken glared at her, his heavy features becoming even more ominous. Then, slowly, he started to rise. 

If he honestly believed that he could scare her into compliance... Debbie didn't even allow him the chance to fire off a new volley. "The senior staff, as you know, all have sufficient clearance to discuss national security issues." 

He loomed over her like a mountain. "Leo can brief them later." 

She had to crane her neck now, but she held fast. David and Goliath. "Then Leo will need to take the time out of his own schedule to bring them up to date. That's a further delay. Plus, they'll have feedback and advice. So Leo will have to play middleman and brief you in turn later on. And the minutes turn into hours -" 

"I want to keep that meeting short. I _don't_ want a lot of questions." 

"Sir, those questions very often give rise to new solutions. President Bartlet has always known the value and the skills of his people, and how to use them best -" 

Debbie had not planned in advance to invoke the _real_ President's name in the presence of his replacement, a gaffe right now if ever there was one. However, she did not avoid doing so just because this man wouldn't welcome it. The truth had to be told. 

For the first time, she saw a genuine flash of animation in Walken's otherwise dead-black eyes. A flash of rage. Directed at her. 

"This isn't Jed Bartlet's Administration anymore." His words rumbled dangerously through the Oval Office like the voice of James Earl Jones - or of God Himself. "It's mine." 

Her head rotated three degrees to port, visibly doubting what she'd just heard. 

He silently dared her to contest him. 

Challenges are made to be met head-on. 

"With respect, sir -" Funny how whenever people started off saying "with respect", you knew they were about to get _really_ disrespectful "- that is inaccurate." If her voice was less impressive, she made up for it with unimpeachable reason. "You are standing in for President Bartlet in a national emergency. He allowed you to assume this tremendous honor and responsibility solely because he believed that, due to his family's current state, you have a clearer head than he does. But he is still the President himself. _He_ was elected by the people for this role - you were not." 

In the back of her mind, Debbie asked herself if there was anyone in the upper ranks of the White House that she _hadn't_ picked a fight with today. At this rate, her luck and her employment would run out at any moment. 

The silence stretched out. Walken kept glowering at her, and she stood there and endured it, trying not to flinch, determined not to back down. 

"I'll say this, Mrs. Fiderer: you've got grit." 

Her resolute expression faltered in surprise - both at his unexpected compliment, and at his sudden acknowledgment of her correct name. 

The Acting President didn't soften _his_ expression much at all, but he did offer a short nod, as though to a worthy opponent. "I like that. A lot of people would've caved." 

Everything leaped into focus, broadsiding Debbie with two intense emotions. 

The first was anger: _He was testing me._

The second was pleasure: _I passed._

~ HOUR 19 ~ 

Charlie stepped out of the Oval Office in silence. That in itself did not raise concern or even comment. What caught Debbie's attention was his failure to close the door behind him. 

She looked up, eyebrows lifted in query. He did not appear to be waiting for anyone to follow him out. He seemed to be expecting a reaction from her. 

He tipped his head towards that historic chamber. "Your turn." 

She needed no further details, saving her computer file and snatching up her notepad. 

The click of the door latch behind her didn't interrupt the debate before her. 

"I don't like it, Mr. President. This is not the ideal time." At least Leo had resigned himself to Walken's new title. 

"When will there ever _be_ an ideal time? It has to be done soon; let's do it now." Clearly the Acting President would not be moved, either politically or figuratively. Debbie figured that the recent senior staff meeting hadn't gone as well as she'd privately hoped. At least he'd listened to them, though; that pointed towards progress. 

Walken rotated his bulk her way. "Mrs. Fiderer, I'm going to the Hill for ten." 

She experienced a flash of apprehension. They were in a state of siege here, and he wanted to take a stroll up the Mall? 

She reminded herself again that most of this political timing and finagling went right over her head. If he had to speak with certain advisors so badly, and they couldn't come to him - probably because of their sheer number in this case - then he had little choice. 

She cast a swift glance at the motionless pillar against the back wall that was Ron Butterfield, the only other person in the room. As though securing the White House in high alert and finding a First Family kidnap victim weren't enough to keep him busy, he now faced the additional challenge of ensuring their current Chief Executive's safety during a trip through a city under martial law. She didn't envy him. 

Walken extended a paper. "These are the people I need to see." 

"Yes, sir." She took it from him - 

The rear door to this office swung open without a knock. All three people jerked about. 

Aside from the Secret Service, everybody who entered this chamber always knocked first... except one. 

Aside from the Service, nobody used that door into the corridor anyway - except one. 

"Glen." 

And _nobody_ around here dared address Walken by his first name. Except one. 

Jed Bartlet must have figured that nobody would dare oppose his passage; he marched in as though he still owned the place. 

If he felt the least bit strange at the sight of someone else occupying _his_ office, sitting at _his_ desk, conferring with _his_ people, doing _his_ job... he gave no obvious sign. Plainly he had too much on his mind to waste any effort on peripheral details. 

_They_ certainly felt weird about it. And more than a little guilty, even though they had no reason to. 

He had changed clothes, Debbie noticed with a sense of added unreality. She'd never seen him in casual attire before. Of course a sweater and jeans would be far more comfortable in which to endure an endless vigil, but for the first time she realized how much a simple business suit seemed like the uniform of his office. 

He wasn't just off-duty. He had been _removed_ from duty. Until further notice. 

The disarray to his hair and the frenzied light in his eyes only completed this impression of a man cast utterly adrift. Debbie tried not to flinch in pity. 

He looked neither left nor right, ignoring everyone except the man in that leather chair. 

As he stalked across the carpet, through a sudden and uneasy quiet, she turned from him - towards the man who could advise them all during this instant complication. 

She did not look at Walken, their official leader. She looked at Leo. 

The Chief of Staff had frozen in stark trepidation. Debbie had never seen him appear so uncertain; the thought scared her in turn. This confrontation could instigate every constitutional backfire ever written, and possibly some that had never been conceived of before. 

Leo stood in front of the "Resolute" desk, near its right front corner. He did not step sideways; that would have visibly and rudely obstructed Bartlet's path both to that desk and to its occupant. Instead, he stepped forward - away from that desk and towards his real leader. Away from his job, and towards his best friend. 

His best friend threw him a dismissive frown. "Oh, chill out, Leo. I'm not here to cause any trouble." 

He sounded like he believed that, too. But how could he not cause a _lot_ of trouble, just by being here? 

Debbie prayed that none of these men would notice her. She shouldn't leave without being dismissed; she couldn't stay _after_ being dismissed. She did not want to distract anyone's attention, and she certainly didn't want to abandon the field. Forget Walken; she wanted more than anything to be here for _the_ President. He'd be needing every supporter he could get. 

The former Speaker had risen to his full towering height. 

"Mr. President." There was nothing welcoming in that address, accurate though it remained. 

"Likewise." Without actually voicing the same term, Bartlet gravely acknowledged Walken's right to work here. 

"You've been relieved of duty, sir." True to form, Walken pulled no punches. Whatever else one might say about this man, he was without artifice. 

"And I'm not contesting that." Bartlet continued forward, straight across the stitched beauty of the Great Seal, and stopped in front of the handsomely carved desk. For the first time ever, he stood on its other side. "I came to help." 

"Sir -" Leo had to contest _this,_ no matter how much it hurt him to do so. 

"Yes, help," Bartlet reiterated, his voice even firmer than usual. "I may not have the authority any longer, but I like to think I still have some talent for logical thought. I might as well be of use rather than sit around and do nothing." 

But if he started disagreeing with Walken's decisions... if he started giving orders of his own... what would they _do?_

"Sir, we can't have both of you -" 

"I'm not talking about orders, Leo. I'm talking about advice. Counsel. Experience. I want to do _something._ " 

The President exhaled heavily, then continued, revealing an even deeper layer to his frustration. "For the first time in four years, I'm not in the loop. All I've got are the news reports. I don't know one thing about what's happening behind the scenes, or what steps are being taken that haven't make the headlines. It's driving me crazy. The silence..." 

Clearly the silence of not knowing at all surpassed even the scrambling tension of the Situation Room itself. 

"Then you'll find retirement even harder," Walken mused with his usual blunt directness. 

"But at least after my term, it won't be my _responsibility._ " 

"It isn't now, either." To do him justice, Walken did sound a bit less like he wanted to rub salt in the wounds, and more like he'd meant that comment as comfort: reassurance that his predecessor did not need to burden himself with such national concerns for the present. 

"I turned the decision process over to you. That means I'm responsible for your actions as well as my own." Bartlet got that out through clenched teeth. 

He was reaching a bit beyond the Twenty-Fifth's jurisdiction here. But if he really looked at it that way, then he had to be going quietly insane with this added burden. 

Debbie felt her own teeth grind together. This man had been reduced to _true_ helplessness. At least as the "empowered" President he'd felt like he could do something - even though that something might have gone straight against his own oath of office. Truly being able to do nothing, to leave everything to everyone else, to have no part in the result, to just _wait,_ was infinitely worse. 

In fact, the only thing worse still would have been to refuse any demands himself, and then hear that his child would be killed as a result. 

"Thank you, sir, but we don't need your help. We have everything under control." 

Debbie tightened her grip on her notepad, wishing for the freedom to hurl it at Walken's head with all her strength. Still, to be honest, Walken couldn't do much else. One person had to be in control, and only one - and Bartlet gave that up. 

"Look." The Man took that last step forward and planted both hands on the leading edge of that desk, leaning right into the executive workspace where even _former_ Presidents should not tread. From her place to one side, Debbie had a perfect ringside seat to this face-off. His expression was taut; his eyes were chunks of glacial ice. "I'm not saying that you can't do this job well enough on your own. I'm saying that I have more experience doing it. You _have_ to make more mistakes in the short run. _I can help._ LET ME!" 

Surely he'd never come so close to begging in his entire life. 

Leo inserted himself into this contest; softly, cautiously, reluctantly. "Sir... you _cannot_ take part in command decisions right now. For our sake, for your sake, for the nation's sake. For _Zoey's_ sake." Deep regret tinged his words. "This is exactly what the framers of the Constitution had in mind. I know it seems cruel, but it's the only way we can operate." 

Bartlet's already-critical temper trembled towards explosive release at being denied this essential and, in his mind, perfectly reasonable request. "Damn it, Leo, can't I count on _you_ to understand -" 

"Mr. President." Walken's bass rumble vibrated around them. "You do not have clearance to the Oval Office at this time." 

Stunned silence descended like an anvil. 

Bartlet stared at the Acting Commander-in-Chief for an endlessly long moment, his frown deepening and his vision heating up. Was a little courtesy, a little consideration, a little common sense too much to ask? 

Then he squeezed his eyes shut... not in defeat, but in an escalating, gale-force rage. His lips compressed against a snarl. His fists opened and closed convulsively, striving for control. The muscles tightened right across his shoulders. Atmospheric pressure built and _built,_ fast approaching the red line of no return. In one more heartbeat he was going to rip into his replacement - literally. 

Debbie didn't dare so much as twitch, much less glance around at everyone else's reactions. She sensed, though, that Ron has soundlessly moved up beside her, now close enough to take action if need be. But what action would he take - _could_ he take? What division of loyalties \- or conflict of orders - did he face? Which man deserved his protection more: the one actually in office, or the one who was personally threatened by this crisis? The one under pending physical assault, or the one about to come apart at the seams? Where was _this_ in Ron's job description: to break apart a physical fight, in the Oval Office, between two of his own protectees... and both Presidents at that? 

Meanwhile, what action would Leo take, duty-bound to oppose his former leader despite their decades-old friendship? Bartlet had nothing on Walken for size, but high emotion can summon a strength beyond normal human ability. And then what might their current leader do afterwards? Since his oath-taking, an attack against him had become a federal crime. 

That legal detail would be no deterrent to The Man right now. Debbie held her breath and waited for the imminent, unbelievable sight of Jed Bartlet vaulting his desk and going straight for Glen Walken's jugular... 

He didn't. Somehow he managed not to let the hurricane loose. He forced himself to breathe: once, twice. Then, finally, he looked up. 

The anguish in his azure vision cut his secretary to the core. 

"This is not about clearance, Glen. Or politics." He started out quietly, almost trembling with the effort of self-restraint. "Do you have _any_ idea how hard it was for me to stand down? It's not because I like the power trip, or because I'm a control freak. It's not because I dislike your party in general or you in particular. It's not because I'm convinced that I can do a better job than anyone else, if only because I'm the one who's been doing it lately." 

That baritone rose, gaining volume with each additional sentence, flooding out in a tide of passion that could not be stemmed. "I handed over the reins and the nuclear codes for one reason only: because it's the best thing for the nation. And the reason I hated doing that so much is because it's the very WORST thing for my daughter!" 

His face adopted an alarming ruddy hue as at last he bared his soul. "Do you understand what I've done? With one stroke of my pen, the kidnappers have lost all of their bargaining power. So what will they do next, huh? You won't negotiate, and I CAN'T!" 

He waved both arms in furious emphasis. "What use is Zoey to them now, especially alive? Alive, she can fight, or escape, or be rescued. Alive, she can ID them. Alive, she can testify. Alive, she's no longer a critical advantage; suddenly she's a liability! It's going to come down to her life - or _theirs._ What to YOU think they're going to want to do about THAT?" 

He was bellowing now, his voice ringing off the walls. "Do you get it, _Mr. President?_ Can you grasp what I gave up when I walked out of here and left you in charge? By doing the right thing for the United States, _I have personally ensured my little girl's DEATH!_ " 

That awful word, that terrible truth, thundered through their brains. 

It also delivered the final crushing blow, where responsibility and Constitution and logic had failed. Before their eyes Bartlet deflated, inch by inch, energy expelled, spirit quenched. His head bowed; his shoulders slumped. He backed off, staggered sideways and sank into the nearest armchair. He leaned forward, propped elbows on knees and buried his face in his hands... but not before everyone else saw the silver tears. 

Rattled by fury only seconds before, the Oval Office now knew total silence - save for the shuddering sighs of a father's grief. 

Debbie blinked at her own tears, and she could see that the others shared her shock. Leo looked only slightly less stricken than The Man himself. Walken's former arrogance had shifted towards a sullen regret. Even Ron, who almost never admitted to emotion of any kind, allowed his own features to reflect a heartfelt compassion. 

Then Leo moved - moved forward, one step at a time. Almost creeping, as though afraid that his approach might add to the agony of his best friend, while his whole being cried out to do anything that could ease this agony. In the choking quiet, he laid a fraternal, undemanding hand upon one shaking shoulder. Waited until that damp, tortured face turned towards him. Inclined his head in the direction of the nearest exit. Waited for the faint nod of dull agreement. 

Almost too gently for words, the Chief of Staff helped his President stand, stepped in to provide physical support, and carefully guided him out of the room. He never glanced back at the _Acting_ President, not even for permission to leave. This man, this situation, this bond took precedence. 

~ HOUR 20 ~ 

"I don't care _what_ oath he took. There's such a thing as human decency!" 

Debbie moved between her desk and the filing cabinets, whittling away at a huge stack of reports. This was the kind of job that required minimal concentration, freeing her mind for other things... such as executive criticism. Her constant circuit took on the attitude of pacing. 

Charlie sat at his desk, his pen idle. He had overheard only the loudest shouting through the closed door, and couldn't catch the words, but the story of Jed Bartlet storming the Oval Office had lost nothing in Debbie's recount. 

Now he seemed happy to let her vent... even to egg her on a bit. He felt more than a little protective towards their embattled President as well. "It's not his kid who's at risk. How can anyone hope to really understand what the First Couple is going through?" 

" _I_ sure don't understand, but that doesn't prevent me from showing some sympathy for their situation." Debbie stuffed files away with both accuracy and force. " _That_ -" She hooked a thumb over her shoulder towards the closed white door "- was insensitive to the extreme." 

Charlie didn't disagree with her; he did, however, take up the role of devil's advocate, just for the pleasure of watching her demolish his token arguments. "President Walken must be feeling pretty swamped. He hasn't been here that long, really, and he had to dive straight into a domestic and foreign emergency. I know _I'd_ have no idea what to do first." 

"Both domestic and foreign affairs are still founded upon people. No leader can forget that. If you start weighing states and countries as whole entities, then you lose contact with the human element of suffering." Debbie's low volume only proved she was thinking before she spoke; it accentuated each word. 

This time the body man did not counter. She didn't care; she needed no direct challenge to continue her line of debate. 

"Now what about the parents of _other_ abducted children? The police keep them informed of every inch of progress. Their friends gather around them. The public rallies behind them." Head down, she stood at her desk and sorted the next bunch for filing, slapping pages into order so brusquely that they didn't line up quite as precisely as they should. 

"If the Bartlets were any other couple in the world, they'd be receiving that same support. But because he's got the keys to a Treasury and the codes to a nuclear arsenal, they aren't being offered even the most basic courtesies! Their family members can't come here - it's a security risk. She can't speak to anyone publicly - it's a sign of government weakness. He can't help in even the smallest capacity - it's a constitutional issue. They can do _nothing!_ And in that nothing, they're not even permitted to know what's going on. _It's not right!"_

Debbie gathered up the armload of fresh filing. Her train of thought never paused. "These are two human beings in intense pain. Not only do they need Zoey, but they need _us._ And what our present boss needs is to come down from the high of his promotion." 

She turned from her desk - 

\- and nearly slammed into a veritable Rock of Gibraltar. 

She braked so hard that her papers almost went flying. He had most definitely not been here mere moments earlier. 

Walken glowered down, only a few inches away, his massive silhouette blocking most of her vision, his head tilted back slightly so that he seemed taller still. 

Debbie stood frozen, fighting an automatic expression of horror. She had meant every word she said. She had _not_ meant for him to overhear. 

How had he entered without her noticing? She'd left him in the Oval, and she'd have known if that white wooden door beside her desk opened. He must have stepped out onto the Portico, perhaps for some fresh air, and then come through the glass patio door _behind_ her desk, while she'd been distracted with her filing and her tirade. 

Perhaps he'd overheard even more than she already dreaded. Based upon her luck's recent track record, she expected no less. 

In the quivering silence, she retreated just one step, accepting her place and her error. Hugged her papers a bit closer, feeling the need for a barrier between her and the punishment to come. Held herself still, determined to take that punishment stoutly. 

The Acting President waited, until it became clear that she had no intention of scrabbling for an excuse. She really had no excuse at all. 

"Offhand," he said at last, "I'd say right now you might be having second thoughts about that last comment." 

Debbie swallowed. Was this another test? Not likely; the edge to his voice made her think of a carving knife right out of the freezer. 

"Well, sir... I admit I could have worded it more diplomatically." Which was to say that she did not regret it, and had no plans to retract it, no matter what he thought or what he might do. By this stage she'd given herself up for dead. 

"Hm." It came out as more of a growl than anything else - a dangerous resonance that started near his toes and rippled upwards like not-so-distant thunder. She tried not to cringe. 

However, he said no more. With an air that her opinions were beneath him, he revolved and, exhibiting remarkable grace for such a big man, soundlessly exited the way he had come. 

Debbie waited until she was sure he'd gone... then she set the paper stack on her desk and lowered herself very carefully into her chair. She hadn't felt so off-balance since the moment she'd first been introduced to their new Commander-in-Chief. 

Then she looked up - to find Charlie actually smiling at her. 

Anger flared, bringing a rose tint to her mortified pallor. "You knew he was there for the last bit. Why didn't you _tell_ me?" 

He shrugged. That smile had not been a sign of amusement, she suddenly guessed, but of admiration. "I wanted him to hear it." 

Pause. 

Debbie let out a long breath, feeling her heart rate gradually slow to normal. "Well, fine. At least we'll _both_ be in trouble as a result." 

~ HOUR 21 ~ 

The white door opened and the senior staff trooped out. 

Debbie and Charlie watched in silence as this quartet passed between them. Josh, Will and C.J. were arguing some point that made no sense to either observer without knowing the context. Toby trailed the pack, his nose in his report folder, his internal radar guiding him flawlessly in their wake. 

Close behind _him,_ Julien and Brad kept pace. They did not confer amongst themselves or with anyone else, and they looked just a bit less smug than usual. 

Judging from this overall impression, it had been a productive meeting. Which, since President Walken took up the reins and his own staff moved in, would be a first. 

No sooner had the door closed behind them than Debbie's intercom clicked. "Mrs. Fiderer, would you come in, please." 

She hesitated a fraction before hitting her own toggle. "Yes, sir." 

Surely there could be but one reason for _this_ summons. Charlie's somber features plainly agreed with her. 

She rose, and sighed. Off to face her doom. "Been nice knowing you, kid." 

That must have been an interesting item on the agenda for this meeting: the most expedient way to dismiss an executive secretary for gross insubordination. No wonder none of the senior staffers had glanced at her on their way by. 

Inside, she found a surprise: with Walken were both Leo and Darrow. 

"Debbie." For such a naturally expressive person, Leo could be very expression _less_ when he felt the need. 

Darrow just handed her his usual smirk of superiority. 

She felt her heart sink even lower. This was so serious, Walken had dragged both Teams into the equation. It might be his way of making her dismissal look less like a presidential tantrum. Or, perhaps he had turned to them for an added excuse. Firing her because she didn't give him the full respect he felt he should receive sounded petty no matter how you worded it. 

Head high, refusing to cower or plead for clemency, she stepped towards the Seal. She would be the first employee of Bartlet's Administration to fall before Walken's regime. Just maybe she'd be the last... if Bartlet returned in time. 

She stopped by the nearer corner of the desk. The Chiefs of Staff for Team A and Team B stood to her right. Her new boss sat before her. 

He was writing, his attention directed downward. Her termination of employment, no doubt. 

"Mr. President." She kept her voice absolutely normal, just to prove she could take it. 

"Mrs. Fiderer." He didn't look up. "I have a job for you." 

Packing her desk? 

"We've changed the game plan a bit. Amazingly enough, this office is capable of consensus now and then." 

If this was his way of easing into the bad news, he didn't need any additional lessons on how to be confusing. Debbie shot a fast glance at Leo. Both for the sake of the White House and for the sake of her ego, she hoped that the _real_ second-in-command had obtained a decent concession in exchange for agreeing to let her go. 

"From now on," Walken continued, still writing, "we're going to keep President Bartlet at least partially on the inside." 

Now that was a _huge_ triumph! Debbie almost grinned outright. She'd had no idea she was worth such a high price. The thought of leaving, especially during such a crisis as this, while so much remained undone, became rather less unpalatable when tempered by the knowledge that the President's pain would be somewhat alleviated as a result. And information was the only pain relief available to him. 

"There will be conditions attached." Walken flipped through the papers on his desk, adding notations. "We're kind of stretching the Twenty-fifth here - but then, it's never been invoked like this before. At the moment, this doesn't seem like too bad a precedent. We don't want him working up a lather or jumping to conclusions when he watches the news." 

"I agree, sir." Did she ever. She'd argued for this grant herself. 

"I'm glad to hear it." His sarcasm had more bite than Bartlet at his best, but even so he sounded just a bit less cutting than before. 

"Leo will explain it to him. Some details still can't be shared. Military strategy has to remain in the Situation Room; things like that. And he's getting the rest only so long as he doesn't try to take action himself. Any suggestions he's got, he can write a memo. I'll read it." Walken gathered the papers together. "One order, and he's out of the loop again." 

Debbie nodded slowly. "I'm sure the President will consider that a fair trade, sir." 

She almost winced at her choice of wording - after all, she addressed a President right now as well. But then, she was on her way out anyway. It no longer mattered. 

Walken's next move startled her. He picked up the stack of pages and extended it to her. 

"I've pulled the reports he can see, and there are other notes there on what the staff has discussed. See that he gets a copy of everything." 

Debbie blinked, taken so completely by surprise that she needed several seconds to react. 

He wanted her to do this work herself - to correlate these files and deliver them personally to The Man upstairs? He wanted her to stay around for the time it would take to accomplish this... as well as for any future reports that would also come in to be copied and passed along? 

He wanted her to _stay?_

She turned to Leo in frank amazement. The twinkle in his vision and the slight upturn to his mouth convinced her that he knew of her brush with the Acting President's ire. He must have guessed what she was anticipating when she walked in here. 

Darrow, by contrast, did not look very forgiving. No doubt in his eyes she would be on probation hereafter. 

This also told her that Walken was keeping Leo in the loop as well, even on the trivial stuff - such as when he overheard a secretary mouthing off. That boded very well for the functionality of the entire House. Still, she did wonder absently whether Leo had had to talk him down from discharging her... or if it had taken a boycott by the entire senior staff... or if Walken had decided to reconsider on his own. 

Well. Not only had she contributed at least in part to changing their current Chief Executive's former closed mind and stiff-necked style, and obtained a major boon for their past (and hopefully future) Chief Executive as well, but it now looked like she wouldn't be required to sacrifice herself in the process after all. 

The Acting President refrained from a smile, as usual. He did cock one eyebrow, though, in as close to a display of humor as she had yet beheld. Clearly he also had known what she'd expected from his summons. 

Then he leaned back, for the first time looking almost relaxed. "I have to say, this Administration seems pretty informal to me. Every other government office I've been in does things much more by the book. Now part of the reason might be that your senior staff is the same group who worked on the first Bartlet campaign. So of course, when y'all came here, you already had a crew that was used to working together. Thing is, good campaigners don't usually make good administrators as well. A lot of other candidates have tried that, and lived to regret it. You guys lucked out." 

Walken didn't say it outright, but Debbie wondered if he felt anything like that solid closeness with his own people. Darrow didn't appear to take offense; either he believed such a bond already existed, or else he simply considered himself too irreplaceable. 

That previous staff meeting must have been an event. Team B had never pretended to like their new leader, and their wariness of what he might bring to the office could not have been disguised, but they had developed a grudging respect for him even before this. He'd accepted a very difficult job - not only leading a nation through a calamity, but earning the approval of the nation's most skilled and loyal advisors... and he seemed to be managing on all counts. 

Best of all, he had come to respect these advisors in turn. 

Suddenly Debbie felt the urge to apologize to him, as she never had before. 

"Mr. President..." The nervous pause gave him time to rotate her way. "I presume security has been increased around your own family." 

Now _he_ paused, hardly expecting such a personal statement. "Yeah, my ex-wife and son are under Secret Service protection." They probably found it a rude shock - right after the _pleasant_ shock of hearing that he'd been sworn in as Chief Executive. "Security has also been added to the new Speaker of the House and to the Secretary of State... just in case." 

"God forbid that any of them should _need_ that security." There was no hollowness to Debbie's words, nor any hidden meaning. As always, she meant exactly what she said. "I'm glad your family is safe." 

Thanks to that oblique reparation, she also had the pleasure of seeing his perpetually stern visage soften at last. 

~ HOUR 22 ~ 

Debbie stood in front of the closed wooden door, and drew one more deep breath. 

She was about to penetrate the inner sanctum of the White House. By comparison, the Situation Room was a walk-in clinic. Excepting Leo and Charlie, none of the West Wing staff came upstairs to the Mansion's living quarters unless it was important and urgent. From all accounts, not even Mrs. Landingham had been known to make this journey. Its art-festooned walls glowed with history; its spacious corridors whispered of both laughter and weeping that over two hundred years had helped to define a country. Color photos of the State Rooms appeared in countless publications, but the Residence remained a jealously guarded haven. Few people ever saw these chambers; fewer still had the honor of staying in them. It was reserved for the guests of the nation, from movie stars to emperors. It was the premiere residence in the Western World. Yet it was also a refuge... where the First Family could relax and be at their most human, away from the public's prying eyes. 

It was where the Bartlets could finally be guaranteed their privacy during this dark night of the soul. 

And the executive secretary was about to barge in on them. If Leo hadn't come up first and obtained permission, she never would have dreamed of this, much less dared. Even now she half-expected the numerous Secret Service agents to politely yet immovably bar her path. 

Assuming she did get through, what would she find? What condition was the President in now? In another moment she would see him for the first time since his rampage and breakdown in the Oval Office... and he would actually notice her for the first time since she had typed two brief, globe-rocking letters. 

She braced herself to whatever might await, and knocked. 

She had no reason to feel invasive. She'd been ordered to come here. 

Besides, chances were the President would just take the file from her hand and send her away at once. 

No, of _course_ he wouldn't invite her in. She wasn't a friend, not like the senior staff. She was only an employee, fulfilling a necessary yet impersonal function. No more. 

Surely she would hear the approach of footsteps on the other side...? 

With no warning at all, the door swung open. She stepped backward in a surprise that came disturbingly close to fear. 

Jed Bartlet glowered at her. "About time. Get in here." 

Caught even further off-guard, Debbie stumbled across the threshold, dragged forward by the magnetism of his command. 

Mentally, she stumbled a bit as well. Her boss seemed to have rebounded from the awful despair of less than three hours past, more so than she would have predicted. But then, it was not part of this man's makeup to surrender to any adversity for any length of time. The promise of again being kept up to date on events had done wonders. 

"- Sir." By pure rote she almost said "Good evening," but that would have been ridiculous. Thanking him for holding the door for her and closing it after hardly made sense, either; this was no time to dwell on chivalry. The entire scene sprang from one unreal touch to another: his casual attire, the walls' sculptured detail, the furniture's quiet elegance, the soothing warmth of a fire in the grate, a linen-draped tea trolley with silver platters of food, his jerky movements and unusually curt manner. 

The rich décor surrounded her; she tried not to stare like a tourist. The thick carpet gave luxuriously underfoot, offering a level of comfort that she did not share. 

She stood in the First Family's private sitting room, with the supplanted President of the United States, during a national and _personal_ crisis, bearing highly-classified documents of critical import to the nation's security, and wondering what on earth she should say or do. 

The Man didn't give her much choice or much chance. "Look at this, will you? This is appalling!" 

What? Had Leo brought up an official report in advance? If so, Bartlet shouldn't be discussing it with his secretary. She was a mere courier - even less entitled to such contents than he technically was right now. 

And if he got fired up again and tried to pitch his own hat back into the ring... 

He handed her two photos, almost slapping them down on top of the file folder she held horizontally before her. 

For one long moment she didn't dare look down. How much trouble would she get into by obeying his order to see something she shouldn't? 

He folded his arms, waiting for a response. Daring her to say nothing about whatever it was that angered him so much. So finally she took the leap. 

They were classic before and after images: the first instantly recognizable, the second a veritable ruin. Debbie exhaled in relief as the knowledge sank in that she hadn't just broken half a dozen laws... and then in regret for the loss these pictures represented. 

"That was the symbol of my home state." Bartlet sounded both furious and bereft. "It was a natural wonder of the world. It's been there for eons, long before recorded history on this continent. Probably before people first _arrived_ on this continent. And now it's _gone._ " 

In some places this news had been a banner headline; in others, it got buried several pages deep. But doubtless each article had featured pictures just like these: the Old Man in the Mountain's unmistakable silhouette, an amazing creation of nature on a rocky cliff over an otherwise unremarkable valley in New Hampshire. Stone outcroppings of different sizes and shapes had formed the perfect image of a man's brow, nose and jaw in profile against the sky. 

Before... and after. 

The news of its sudden, total collapse after millennia of erosion had thrown that state into mourning. Coincidentally, this happened during the preceding day... while the President from that state had been spending his time mourning his youngest daughter's independence. Between his workload and her travel plans, he just didn't happen to receive this bulletin before _his_ foundation broke away beneath him. 

His vociferous reaction to such a comparatively minor affair, which no human could correct anyway, did have one obvious explanation. When you simply can't do a thing about a real emergency, find something else to angst over. Of course it doesn't accomplish much, and it's a waste of energy - but it just might prevent you from going utterly insane. 

The fact that he now had an audience as well as a focus encouraged him to launch into a fitting eulogy. "It was created by the retreat of the glaciers, who knows how many thousands of years ago. As though the hand of God had reached out and personally molded those features... I always wondered if it wasn't a self-portrait." His bright blue eyes pinched the way some people did when they were fighting back intense sorrow. "Now there's nothing left. One little rock-fall, and every trace of it ever having been there is wiped out forever." 

He didn't stop, pacing the room like a caged lion. One lap of this circuit passed close to the more distant of two handsome sofas - 

Right past his wife. 

Debbie went very still, shocked by the revelation that she hadn't noticed the First Lady's presence until this moment. 

Abbey sat as motionless as a statue. She still wore her dark-brown dress of the evening before. She was comfortably settled on the couch, hands clasped in her lap, head up and eyes open... staring straight ahead, ignoring everything and everyone. She paid no attention to her husband's diatribe; she never acknowledged her husband's secretary's presence. 

Debbie did not move. This woman was conscious - in fact _fully_ conscious. She didn't appear to be even partially sedated, her body relaxed yet not limp. On the contrary, she bore an unnerving resemblance to Mount St. Helens: steady and tranquil... right before it erupted. Debbie could feel the tension under the surface, even worse than what she had so recently experienced in the Oval Office. An inexorable pressure with nowhere to go... a time bomb that at some point would have to blow. 

Physically, Zoey's mother was at peace. Mentally, she seethed without respite, her mind unable to do otherwise - unable to do anything else at all. Unlike her husband, she did not choose distraction or self-expression. She just waited, saving her strength, primed to react when she _could_ act... and in the meantime withdrawn, churning, worrying. 

By contrast, Zoey's father preferred noise and action - anything rather than the terrible silence. He needed some vent for his emotions, some diversion from his torment. His outbursts acted like a bleeder valve on a boiler, letting off the excess steam, preventing a deadly overload. For the moment, at least... 

Now, at last, Debbie Fiderer beheld firsthand the effects of this horror on the First Couple. She had no wish to parade their suffering before the world; thank God they could find some solitude here at least. However, she suddenly ached to have more people understand what these two were going through. That would silence all the political finagling and the international opposition in any person with the least smidgen of a human heart. 

The President hadn't even slowed down, oblivious to a wandering attention. "Of all possible years, all possible months, all possible _days,_ that mountain had to come apart now. How symbolic. Just like _my_ situation - deprived of stability and meaning. Virtually irreparable." 

Debbie didn't see things as quite so hopeless... but how could she tell him, in such a way that might help instead of rankle? 

"Indeed. I can almost see a family resemblance." When in doubt, joke. She could do deadpan as well as Toby any day. 

Bartlet's restless movements slowed. Considering how long he had been talking to himself, her voice might well have jarred him. Then, after a pause, he revolved. Brows down, eyes shadowed, arms akimbo as though reaching for his guns. 

"So you think I'm about to crumble away, too?" From his tone, he felt both anger and hurt at her seemingly flippant approach. An affirmative most likely wouldn't surprise him at all. 

She had her answer ready. "No, sir. If that stone formation can last a few hundred centuries, then I figure you'll be good for at least one." 

Silence. 

By almost infinitesimal degrees, the scowl eased. It didn't clear all the way, but at length he permitted himself a brief nod, as though to say that he accepted this vote of confidence and appreciated this effort to cheer him up. 

Debbie glanced again at the photos. "I'm sorry about the Old Man." 

The President's gaze dropped. "Yeah. So am I." 

This rocky collapse wasn't a portent of things to come... was it? 

He turned away. "I suppose Mount Rushmore is next. What do you suppose Lincoln will look like without a nose?" 

"That one we can rebuild. What's a billion-dollar facelift between taxpayers." 

Debbie was not what one would call an openly happy person - unlike her boss, for example. She wasn't a depressing person, either... just a closed one; again, much like Toby. In fact, Bartlet had adopted the same approach towards his current secretary as he had towards his Communications Director, and as he had towards his _previous_ secretary: trying constantly to crack the façade with humor. He seemed to look upon such reserved personalities as a challenge for his wit. 

No matter how dire the circumstances, he could still see the funny side of things. His shoulders twitched in a half-formed chuckle. 

This break in the mood seemed to jog his memory as to why she was here in the first place. "You've got something for me?" 

"Oh, right." Debbie had forgotten as well. She handed over the file, really glad that Leo had preceded her, so that _she_ would not have to dictate the official terms to her President. 

He held this folder in his hands, studied it without opening it - its contents so vital that he had raged over being denied them - and then tiredly dropped it onto a side table. 

And he did not dismiss her. 

As much as he wanted to read those reports, he seemed to want something even more: company. Conversation. Comradeship, as apolitical as he could get. His anger had damped again, facing reality in all its unforgiving truth. With help. 

He was President... and yet he wasn't. Debbie had never known him as anything _other_ than the President - until now. It was as though she'd had to adjust her entire worldview. 

For that matter, so had he. He had given up something that had come to define a huge part of him, with no assurance that he would ever get it back. He had left his office, his authority, his staff... He had yielded up his single greatest accomplishment, the identity that had _been_ him for over four years. 

For the sake of the nation. Despite the added risk to his daughter. In the faint hope that all of this might still end in something besides total disaster. 

Debbie felt just a bit humbled. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" 

The wording alone might have been taken as a polite request to be excused. Her intonation made it clear that she really did want to help - even if the best way _to_ help was to leave. 

Not surprisingly, he shook his head. "Nah. We're just stuck here..." He cast a somber glance at Abbey, who still didn't react. "Waiting. Worrying." He sighed. "Blaming ourselves." 

Debbie offered her own grave nod. "We're all with you on that." 

Her choice of wording snagged his attention. "Oh? And if that's the case House-wide, then by all means tell me why you deserve some blame of your own?" The previous sardonic note in his tone had vanished; he truly wanted to hear her response. 

She fidgeted a bit. This was something she had revealed to no one; she certainly didn't feel comfortable discussing it with her boss and leader, who also happened to be one of the principals in the drama. Even so, the concept of lying to him about it never occurred to her. "Well, as you know, I had something to do with landing Charlie in the White House at the start. If I hadn't, then he'd never have met Zoey. Which means she might never have been in the right circumstances to meet this other young man..." 

"Come off it." The President immediately rejected her entire scenario. "That has got to be the lamest attempt at sharing the guilt that I've ever heard." 

In retrospect, it did seem a bit ludicrous. Debbie's sense of the farcical reasserted itself. "Well, it was my _first_ attempt. Give me time and I'm sure I can come up with a better story." 

"Time..." His vision drifted away from her. Towards the window, and the night beyond. "Time is one thing I have in far too great an abundance." His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "And one thing that Zoey doesn't have _at all._ " 

His secretary winced. 

The silence thickened, so that the crackle of the fire sounded disproportionately loud. 

"The FBI has an adage: the first twenty-four hours of a kidnapping are the most critical." Bartlet did not look at Debbie, at Abbey, at his watch or at the mantelpiece clock. "If the victim isn't found in that short time, the odds of _ever_ finding them alive plunges exponentially as each additional hour goes by." 

No one needed to tell him how many hours had already elapsed. He'd been marking every single one of them with the beat of his pulse, the pain in his heart. 

"They'll find her." The conviction in Debbie's voice almost startled her as well. But she meant it. "Guaranteed." 

The President didn't look convinced. "Well, _you're_ an optimist." 

"It's my nature." 

He raised a brow in disbelief, and she almost grinned. 

He almost did, too. Suddenly their conversation had become much more normal. 

"I'm sorry; my manners are somewhat lacking tonight. Have a seat?" 

She shouldn't be lingering here; she must be needed back at her desk. 

He'd asked - not ordered - her to stay. 

"Thank you, sir." Rather self-consciously, she selected an armchair to one side... not too close to the door, in case it looked like she wanted a fast escape route, and not too close to Abbey's disturbing stillness. 

"How about a drink? Something to eat?" Bartlet glanced at the trolley and its banquet, brought here for the First Couple, yet clearly untouched. 

"Only if you are, thanks." Debbie had no desire to chow down alone in front of him. Social meals went far beyond stoking the furnace with fuel; it was a combination of courtesy and companionship... and, in this case, concern for another's well-being. She'd eat almost anything so long as he did, too. He needed the energy even more. 

"Blackmail," he muttered, but accepted her polite ultimatum and headed for the trolley. She'd already noticed the absence of decanters or drinking glasses, to her private relief; she did not want to return to work with even a little alcohol on her breath. Besides, it would slow her down. 

The President must have shared that idea. "I can feel my caffeine buzz fading, anyway." Clearly he had no plans to sleep anytime soon himself. Debbie frowned a bit; he should eat something substantial, and get some much-needed rest. 

But how _could_ he sleep at a time like this? And naturally he'd have next to no appetite. 

"Coffee?" 

"Please." 

"Cream and sugar?" 

"Black." If she _was_ engaged in blackmail, she might as well look the part. 

"Ditto." No surprise there. 

She watched in veiled fascination as he filled three cups, as easily as any domestic employee trained to serve _him._ It was such a _normal_ action for the most powerful man in the world. The unreality of this interview kept inching higher. 

Wordlessly, without in any way seeming awkward or hesitant, he set the first cup down on an end table next to the second sofa - right beside his wife. Debbie's throat tightened at this gesture of consideration... even intimacy. No matter how withdrawn the First Lady might be, or how horrid their mutual turmoil, her husband thought of her first. He might as well have said aloud, _"Just in case you want some, Abbey. We're not leaving you out."_

The second cup he brought to his secretary. She resisted the urge to pinch herself. Not many get to be served by the President of the United States, privately, in the Residence of the White House. She wondered if this was what it felt like to have tea in Windsor Castle. 

Bartlet did not sit, wandering aimlessly around the room, his own cup in hand. "Thank God for the little miracle of the coffee bean." 

"Amen," Debbie endorsed at once, taking a grateful sip. 

He seemed to have meant that comment more literally than she at first assumed. "Although there must be a _few_ other miracles out there as well." 

She had no clue how to respond. The President was the one with the theological education. She didn't want to say something socially neutral yet spiritually dismissive. 

"I'm having a hard time thinking of any right now," he admitted quietly, more to himself than to her. "I'm holding on with both hands... but..." 

But it must be so very hard for him to keep believing in a just and compassionate God when his family had to go through such horror. 

Debbie scrounged for some input she could make that wouldn't sound trite or like an attempt to advise him on an extremely complex subject that she didn't really comprehend. 

She picked her words with great caution. "It's been my experience that those who don't maintain a faith in some kind of deity are far more likely to be cynical." She watched for the first indicator that she might be stepping over the line here. "I imagine your family is very glad that you don't qualify for either condition. I know most of the country is." 

She would never be a spiritual advisor, and she'd whittled her sentences down to such political correctness that they probably didn't have much real value left. Still, surely he could tell that she meant the very best for him? 

Bartlet had stopped by the window, and seemed to be dissecting that brief speech, turning it over thoughtfully in his mind to catch all the different facets. His faith and his lack of cynicism were valuable: to the nation, to his family, and certainly to himself. 

Therefore, they should also be applied to this current crisis. 

"I sure hope I stay that way." He was clinging to an anchor that hadn't pulled free yet, but it had been rocked a bit. 

If his daughter didn't come home, what would he _do?_

He stared into space, his vision probing a dimension beyond human sight. 

Debbie took this quiet moment to study him more closely. From day one at her job she had felt very protective towards his general health. She had arrived knowing about the MS, and she had seen at once the long and taxing days he worked. Despite his remitting illness - or perhaps because of it - he pushed himself harder than any of his staff... quite possibly harder than any of his constituents. That alone deserved admiration and devotion. She had promptly adopted the unwritten, unspoken duty of watching out for him, in his schedule and in his diet, to make sure his commendable dedication didn't do more harm than good. 

How was his health now? No one could endure this kind of strain forever without something giving way. 

Again Debbie looked over at the First Lady. She was a doctor by training, if no longer by license, to say nothing of being married to the man in question. She should have first call for concern on all matters of her husband's health. However, the extent to which she had retreated within herself rendered her far less likely to notice the smaller clues. 

The executive secretary vowed then and there to increase her own vigilance even more. Since she now had the task of bringing all approved reports up here, she would also have the opportunity to check on her President with fair frequency. And if she spotted cracks in the marble... for the sake of the First Lady, the First Family, the entire nation, and The Man himself, she would have to take action. 

They all wanted him back in the Oval Office as soon as realistically and constitutionally possible - but he had to be in the right physical and mental shape for it. 

Thinking of the Oval reminded her of Walken. He'd been assigned the Churchill Room, at the extreme opposite end of the White House, as far away from the Bartlets as possible. Still, they were on the same floor of the same building. Two Presidents. The same oath, different parties. Political opponents, personal rivals. 

It was one thing to voluntarily host an official guest, and quite another to be compelled to give sanctuary to an official replacement. This must be the first time the sitting Chief Executive had not had a say on who got to stay here since the British invaded and torched the place during the War of 1812. 

The coffee smelt better than it tasted, but the energizing bitterness was still welcome. Debbie caught herself wondering how Abbey could resist the aroma, black or otherwise. 

Perhaps she chose not to move because she feared her own reactions if she did. Her aborted appeal to the kidnappers could have undermined the entire executive wing of the federal government. Thank God Amy and C.J. had been there. 

Her husband wouldn't have criticized her for wanting to take the only stand any other mother would have been allowed, even though he couldn't permit it. Still, once Abbey grasped how much damage she could have done to his own efforts, her pain must have doubled yet again. She was even more powerless than he was. 

A few prisoners in a foreign jail couldn't possibly be worth this agony. 

But the peace and integrity of the entire world? Was _that_ a high enough goal to demand the sacrifice of a young woman and her two parents? 

Three lives, weighed against billions... 

Had Abbey been sedated earlier after all, or did she regain enough self-control to not need it just then? Debbie personally believed the latter; the First Lady's strength and restraint had never been in the slightest question throughout her adult life. If she _had_ needed a sedative, one reason that would _not_ have applied was hysteria. However, anyone should be entitled to freedom from an unbearable stress that threatens one's very health. 

Something else Debbie could not imagine was the President's reaction to the news of his wife's sedation. The coffee business had been endearing and touching, and perfectly natural. If anything happened to her as well... 

Yet another thought took hold - an even less pleasant one. Had the President been given a sedative himself? Before he stepped down, that wasn't an option, but after? He naturally wouldn't want it, but if his blood pressure continued to cause concern... And it had been almost an entire day since Zoey went missing, with not one hint of progress yet. 

Debbie was sure he hadn't received any such medication since his assault on the Oval Office; three hours would not have been enough for his system to purge such effects. Aside from the obvious stress, right now he acted absolutely normal, his motions swift and his mind lucid. 

He started pacing again, clearly unable to stand still for long, let alone sit. Not wanting to intrude upon his thoughts, Debbie remained silent and watched him... and finally noticed that his rounds seemed to instinctively avoid passing too close to his wife. 

They were in the same room, but not really together. There was a perceptive distance between them - a buffer zone, almost. Perhaps its root lay in their different methods of facing this nightmare... and perhaps not. They were practically incarcerated here; neither could do a thing about any of this. 

Besides, what could either say to the other? 

How could mere words matter at a time like this? 

Before, the President's unrelenting duty as Commander-in-Chief kept him and the First Lady apart, inserting an almost visible barrier just when they needed nothing so much as to be together. Now, conversely, they were _forced_ to be together... and that seemed to be less of a comfort than might be expected. 

Were they blaming themselves for this? Most likely, at least a little. If only they'd taken better steps towards ensuring Zoey's safety from the start, if only they'd raised more doubts about her new boyfriend... things like that. Nothing could be more natural. Forget the nation; _she_ was their ultimate responsibility. 

Did Abbey blame Jed, however involuntarily, however well she knew she shouldn't, for seeking a second term and indirectly leading to this? Did Jed blame Abbey, if only subconsciously, for not taking a stronger stand with him against Jean-Paul and France and the whole growing-up thing? 

People are neither rational nor fair when they're angry or upset - except that even in a crisis Abbey was always _so_ rational. She might as well blame Jed for his first congressional campaign, which started this whole trend of politics rolling towards the White House. It would make just as much sense for Jed to blame Abbey for giving birth to Zoey in the first place, or to blame himself for siring her. Or to blame himself for all the evil in the world that the Presidency attracts. However, sense can be sorely lacking in moments of such intense emotion. 

Debbie remembered a terribly depressing statistic she read not so very long ago: that of those couples who lose a child to violence, at least seventy per cent split up afterwards. 

The other Bartlet daughters were both safe, but they couldn't come to D.C. while the search continued. That only made things even harder for their parents; they couldn't help but feel abandoned by and segregated from their family, their friends, their purpose in life... and their sanity. 

Elizabeth and Eleanor had to be suffering as well - for their missing sister, for their trapped parents, and for the danger they themselves were in and constantly tried to forget. 

"You have any children?" 

The inquiry came out of thin air; Debbie jumped a bit in her seat. She had no idea how long she'd been sitting here, musing about the soul of the man who'd just fired that question at her, totally unaware that he'd fallen into musing about _her._ Her coffee had lost at least some of its original heat. 

"No." The last formal element to this setting had pretty much dissipated by now. Again, she felt a powerful compulsion to level with her boss - even if it hurt. "I was never able to. My husband divorced me as a result." 

Standing again before the window, Bartlet straightened. Whether he had asked out of politeness after such an elongated silence, or out of passing curiosity, he was definitely interested now. "Funny; I heard that you divorced him instead." The White House gossip mill didn't stop at the Oval Office door; it provided its incumbent with a useful barometer for staff moods, as well as a valued diversion to a long day at work. 

Her face tightened at the flood of memories. "Well... we sort of divorced each other. After he started shopping around for another woman who could provide him with offspring." 

"You don't _provide your spouse_ with children so that his family name and legacy will live on," the President protested with startling vehemence. "You create children together in order to love them as an extension of yourselves." 

Debbie pondered this. "Good way to put it. Too bad my ex never saw things that way." 

She thought again of Andrea Wyatt, recovering from her first childbirth \- of twins, no less. Granted, Andi's and Toby's happiness had been affected by their concern for Zoey and the First Couple... but despite fear and uncertainty and the dangers of the world, they could still share that irrepressible joy of parenthood. A joy that Debbie had never known. 

"I never wished for a son per se." The President started to pace again, but this time there seemed to be a bit more purpose in his stride, as though he had reverted to an earlier time of being a simple professor with an academic point to make. "Oh, it would have been wonderful in itself - but purely incidental. My family has quite a long history, and of course I'd like to see the Bartlet name preserved. Still, that can't compare to the joy all three of our daughters have given to Abbey and me both." He paused... and then he actually smiled a bit. For perhaps the first time in the past twenty-odd hours, he was revisiting cherished memories for their beauty alone. 

"My brother Jonathan thinks more about continuing the dynasty than I ever have. But then, he's got two sons. He's taken care of that for both of us. One less obligation on my plate, and I'm glad." 

Bartlet turned back, head high, shoulders straight. "I wouldn't trade any of my daughters for anyone else in the world." 

A pause fell, and lengthened, as his spontaneous words coalesced and gripped them both by the throat. He looked down, the pain flooding his eyes again. Debbie winced. He had, in fact, been asked for precisely that: a trade. 

Trade... or lose one of those daughters for all time. 

He turned to the window, staring out into an overcast, black-as-Hades night. 

"Now I know I'm mortal - woefully mortal." His voice could barely be heard. "And yet, suddenly... I'm wondering if this is anything like what God Himself felt two thousand years ago. When He gave His Son... for the welfare of the world." 

~ HOUR 23 ~ 

Debbie had truly enjoyed this unique, laid-back interaction with her President, despite the thread of worry and helplessness underlying every topic. She'd stayed way longer than she should have, longer than she ever would have expected to, but he never showed the least sign of hurrying her out. There always seemed to be another campaign tale to share, or a White House anecdote from before her time, or another discourse on some inane point of trivia with no direct connection to current events. Mostly she just sat and listened, letting him talk about whatever crossed his mind. A few times she'd recounted stories of her own, misadventures in employment and social interaction that were entertaining even when you didn't know the other participants. And the minutes scurried past, and neither of them minded. 

Except for a poker game the previous month, she'd never socialized with him; their jobs would hardly permit that. It amazed her that she could feel so comfortable just visiting with the leader of the free world, and her boss to boot... an office she highly revered, and a man she deeply respected. 

Tonight he'd really needed a distraction, and she'd provided it. She was not, after all, a member of his extended family like the senior staff. She didn't know Zoey. She didn't share any of the memories of the Bartlet clan like those people from the campaign. She represented a less familiar - though no less sincere - sympathizer, without the emotional associations. Maybe that was what he _really_ needed: just a bit more personal distance from the core of his suffering. 

Abbey remained in her seat, never moving except to breathe, and occasionally to blink. She'd paid no attention to her own coffee - long cold now - to her husband or to her husband's secretary... but just perhaps the tension that radiated from her had eased somewhat. Perhaps this casual chat with the President had indirectly comforted the First Lady as well. Debbie couldn't be sure - she didn't know Abbey Bartlet, either - but she hoped so with all her heart. Perhaps the two of them alone here, equally trapped and powerless, actually multiplied their pain. They didn't want to be apart, but they might be involuntarily feeding off each other's anxiety. In such a case, the (second) best medicine was an undemanding third presence that cared. 

Unfortunately, Debbie needed to get back to her desk. She had no more choice there than her real leader had in staying away from his desk altogether. 

"I'm sorry I have to leave." Her tone applied a lot of sincerity to that common phrase. She rose and placed her empty cup on the trolley, then looked around this impressive yet cozy chamber. Might the memory never fade. 

"But I'll have other reports to bring you before long." She hoped this reassurance of regular information might offer some condolence as well. 

"Yeah." At last the President looked at the file folder on that side table, ignored all through her visit. Any diversion she had provided earlier was over now. His office - in abeyance or not - settled visibly around his shoulders again. 

Debbie figured this would be a diplomatic time to make her exit. "Thank you, sir." Come to think of it, she hadn't "sirred" him in some time. She still could not get over how relaxed and unassuming their talk had been. But all good things... 

She headed towards the door, watching him all the while, not sure if she needed a formal dismissal. He was reaching for the reports, and seemed to have already forgotten her presence. 

Someone knocked. 

She stopped short. He looked up. 

On the other side of that portal could be just about anything - good news, tragic news, totally uninteresting news... 

Whatever it might be, if it came up here Bartlet had to know about it. Wide brown eyes met wide blue eyes in mutual, spiking apprehension. 

She was closest; should she play usher? His familiar chin-jerk invited her to do so. She saw him brace himself just a bit as she reached for the doorknob. 

Ron Butterfield stood there, as impassive as ever. He gave no hint of surprise at finding the President's secretary in the Residence. 

"Mrs. Fiderer." 

She said nothing; she just backed up, out of his way. 

He had brought _security_ -based news. He would not be here otherwise. 

"Mr. President." And he waited to be invited in. At least that meant lives didn't hang in the balance. 

"Ron." Bartlet ordered him to enter and demanded an explanation, all in one use of the senior agent's name. 

The head of White House security obeyed, calmly and silently, just like always. Two other Secret Service agents followed to flank him, spreading apart in a defensive stance. Not an encouraging sight, if this news required extra physical strength on hand just for the telling. They walked several steps in, passing Debbie with no more than a glance. 

She considered slipping quietly out behind them, since she almost certainly should not be present for whatever revelation was forthcoming. A nibble of curiosity and a hearty dollop of fear clamped her in place. 

"Sir, Jean-Paul has fully recovered." 

Presidential concern mutated into paternal anger. But before any further reaction could take form, a fourth agent came through the door. 

He escorted a tall young Frenchman. 

Debbie snatched one fast look at Zoey's erstwhile boyfriend, taking in the fashionable style done in expensive threads, the aristocratic nose and confident bearing, the long hair and youthful stance - and then cut back at once to the President. Her every instinct screamed that this was _not_ to be missed! 

Jed Bartlet's already grim expression gained a few more degrees of "forbidding." He made no sound, though, nor any initial move. He waited, rock-still, for those extra two seconds while the trailing agent closed the sitting room door. 

Never did two seconds seem so long... where the silence trembled and rattled all on its own... 

At the click of the latch, he started forward. Just walking to start, controlled and deliberate... but every additional stride came a bit faster. With enough distance - say, the length of floor between the fireplace where he'd been standing and the group of men gathered near the room's exit - he could have achieved quite a swift march. The kind of rapid, driven pace that can run straight over anyone in its path. 

His target could not have been more evident. 

His target shrank back. With reason. His escort, though, held him by one elbow, precluding any attempt at flight. 

However, Ron had to keep the peace on both ends. His two closest men must have been well-briefed, because they did not wait for orders. They glided smoothly forward and caught the President on either side, one arm each. Respectfully, yet firmly. 

His surging momentum and voiceless rage actually dragged them one step along with him - one step closer to the youth he so wanted to strangle. Then their superior strength won out, pulling him to a stop some eight feet short. 

Everyone stood motionless - even their leader. Fists clenched, arm muscles knotted, breathing audible, he leaned against the unyielding constraint of his own bodyguards for several moments. It was as though he understood the senselessness of violence, yet simply couldn't help himself and needed their physical assistance to bring that violence under control. His burning eyes never shifted from the ultimate cause of his pain. His _daughter's_ pain. 

The burst of anger he had directed at Walken in the Oval did not compare to what Debbie observed now. She stayed near the wall, overlooked and forgotten, both where she was out of the way and where she had a fine view of everyone. She admitted to herself that this time she wanted to remain mostly for the entertainment value. This time, unlike in the Oval, she did not feel that her boss might need her help. He would need _no one's_ aid here. 

"Sir." Ron quietly imposed a note of reason. "We're already stretching a legal point." 

Debbie was no more a legal expert than she was a constitutional expert, but everyone picks up bits of jurisprudence from the news and from TV shows. In almost any other case, the parents of the kidnappee would not be allowed to confront one of the kidnappers or their accomplices. A bit of leeway for the President of the United States could be understood - but if he totally blew his stack... 

Could he be charged with assault himself? And would such an assault damage the public case against the guilty parties? 

The President never had the luxury of going only with his gut reactions. He always had to see the big picture. Too many other people depended upon his judgment. 

Slowly, this fact sank in. Slowly, Bartlet stood down, his arms relaxing, his weight settling back. Just as slowly, the two agents eased off on their grasp. They still hovered right by him, though, alert for any other move forward. It could happen, too; his hands didn't unclench, and the blue flame in his vision only flared higher. 

He must have sensed, at least dimly, their readiness to thwart any further attempt on his part, no matter how his blood cried out for blood in return. He had been granted this interview on condition that he not surrender to that vengeful instinct. Showing some self-restraint was not _too_ exorbitant a price. 

In effect, the decision on whether to vent his spleen, to unleash wrath and punishment, to rend or not to rend, had been taken from him... and probably for the best. Aggression had no part in his personality. Even when he needed to wield the modern weapons of a massive army against the enemies of world order, he always regretted being forced to _use_ force. He found no solace in the distance of command, ordering others to do the dirty work; he still took that final responsibility upon himself. He ached for the waste of resources and of life. 

It had taken a deadly menace against his baby girl to bring out this unnatural, uncharacteristic, unforgiving lust for revenge - up close and personal. 

It requires a lot of incentive to cross that sacred barrier for the first time, to smother the inherent compassion in your heart for others, to intentionally strike out at a person, to administer violence with your own hands, even under the guise of justice. But once you learn how, it is extremely hard to _un_ learn. It can be as addictive as any drug. Force is no longer the last resort; it becomes the easy way out... and eventually the norm. 

No one wanted to see this man descend into that vicious whirlpool, not even for such a valid reason. Including The Man himself. It would deal a crippling wound to the integrity of his soul. It wouldn't bring Zoey back any faster. And it would hurt her anew to find that her father had compromised that nobility of spirit which she so loved and mirrored. 

This brainless young prince wasn't worth it. 

From the looks of things, Jean-Paul had only just realized that he was safe after all, at least for the present. He had his own bodyguards, prepared to protect him even from the people his actions had hurt the most. 

His relieved grin did not improve the attitudes around him. 

"Go ahead and smile." Bartlet broke the silence at last, his tone low and lethal. "If these guys didn't have better morals than you do, they'd have denied me this pleasure and killed you themselves." 

"Jed." 

Every head yanked about. For Bartlet himself, that involved turning his whole body, which he did - sharply, in open-mouthed astonishment. 

The First Lady had moved at last. Just a bit unsteadily, no doubt stiff from her long vigil on that couch, yet not faltering, she rose to her feet. 

Her dark tailored dress was far and away the most formal outfit present, contrasting especially against her husband's open-necked sweater and faded jeans. 

Her deep brown eyes ignored all of them... save one. _Not_ her husband. 

In one simple motion, with one brief word, she had riveted the attention of every person in this room. 

Just as it had taken Jean-Paul's appearance to evoke a fearsome rage in Zoey's father, so it had taken Jean-Paul's appearance to shatter the trance of Zoey's mother. She reacted, not violently, but inexorably. Her approach was less of a bull's charge and more like a panther's stalk - cooler and even more deadly. 

Debbie's glance darted back to Bartlet, and froze there at what she saw: initial delight that Abbey had decided to take part at last, then understanding as to why she chose to do so now... and then an almost predatory anticipation of what would result. 

Everyone in the White House avoided the President's wrath as a matter of course; they avoided his wife's wrath as a matter of survival. If push came to shove, no one questioned as to which of the First Couple could be more dangerous, and Debbie felt a rush of relief that the anger she plainly detected was not aimed at her. 

Jean-Paul would have encountered both Bartlets on numerous occasions before this, but he certainly hadn't spent much time around them, ergo he did not know them that well at all. What was published in newspapers, magazines and biographies - authorized or not - couldn't properly prepare anyone for the true nature of the personality behind the public image. And while Zoey would have mentioned her parents often enough, she and her boyfriend had probably used most of their time to talk about themselves. 

Still, even an ignorant person could guess how the mother of a kidnap victim might feel, and anyone would experience a tickle of fear at the absolute lack of expression that Abbey now displayed. This wasn't shock; this was fury of the first order, bound - for the moment - by a frightening control and an implacable will. 

She approached slowly, and no one attempted to deter her. She passed slightly to lee of her husband and his two unasked-for watchdogs. She stopped barely a single yard from Jean-Paul... close enough to slap him, stab at his eyes, rake his face... 

He was quite a bit taller, to no one's surprise. She looked almost absurdly tiny against Ron's six-foot-plus height. Yet even so, her presence dominated the room. 

Just as her face betrayed none of the emotions she had to be feeling, so her voice was deceptively quiet and level. 

"We've reached a few conclusions. If you can prove us wrong, by all means do so." 

Jean-Paul showed the first sign of nervousness. He couldn't look away, as mesmerized as a sparrow caught in the gaze of a cobra. 

"Zoey told Charlie that you had extended an invitation for her to try some Ecstasy with you last night. According to the Secret Service, Zoey offered no struggle against her captors at all. Therefore she had to have been under the influence of something stronger than a couple of drinks." The words came out flatly, the facts undeniable. 

"Zoey would never have taken any recreational drug of her own volition. All of my daughters have always known better than that; I made sure of it. Therefore, you slipped Zoey the same warped substance that half-killed you." 

Abbey paused, but the focus of her attention did not contest these assumptions. He probably knew he had no hope of convincing them anyway. 

"The simplest method of keeping a person prisoner is to keep her drugged." The use of the feminine pronoun might have been unconscious or deliberate; no one could tell. "Now even a little alcohol, plus GHB, plus an initial dose of sedative to fully incapacitate the victim, followed by repeated doses over time of the same sedative - or any other narcotic, for that matter - such a combination can _kill._ Unless the abductors have medical training and know what they're doing. And what do you suppose the chances are of that?" 

Abbey had locked herself into doctor mode, speaking as clinically as though she had no relation at all to the victim in question. 

"You've been in the papers for awhile now, Jean-Paul - but not because of your heritage or your wealth. Because you were dating the President's daughter." 

The boy flushed a bit at this jab to his ego. 

"It meant that your name and face became known to a lot of different Americans... including some who were looking for a shot at high treason. Your drug dealer ratted you out to just such an individual or group. That ilk usually has connections to all types of people. It doesn't matter now whether he did it to gain favor or to earn money." Abbey's tone tightened for the first time, in total disgust both for Jean-Paul's habits and for his dealer's maliciousness. 

"These people arranged for your next few purchases to be tainted, hoping that you'd convince Zoey to try it. Ecstasy is relatively benign by comparison. They knew your type and your weakness very well; they could work out the entire club scene in advance. They didn't want to really poison either of you - but your own reaction has shown us all just what state Zoey must have been in." 

Abbey had to pause here and reinstate her emotional shielding. That last paragraph taxed her to the limit. 

Up until now Jean-Paul had not dared to interrupt, but finally he couldn't stand being railroaded, as he saw it, any longer. "I only gave her a half! Such a tiny bit -" 

"There's your confession, Ron." Abbey didn't take her eyes off this young man... and those eyes had begun to shoot daggers. "Swear to me now that Zoey took it willingly." 

He swallowed. Could anyone in the world stand before this woman at this moment and lie? "She... she kept hesitating..." 

"So you did what you thought was best. You wanted her to discover the experience. Once she tried it, she'd learn to love it, right?" For someone so fundamentally against drug abuse of any kind, Abbey had a fair understanding of the motives behind it. As a physician she would have seen a lot. "And even a half, plus alcohol, would have been more than enough to dull Zoey's reflexes. You played your role to perfection. You were the most effective member of the whole abduction team." 

Probably not before this moment had Jean-Paul realized how he himself had been taken in. But Abbey wasn't done with him by a long shot. 

"The fact that your dealer has been found dead is the only reason no one is accusing you of buying the GHB intentionally. Or at least, no one is accusing you right this minute. True, you gave it to Zoey without her knowledge or consent, but we believe - for the moment - that _you_ believed you were using Ecstasy, nothing else. Of course, that interpretation is open to amendment as future evidence crops up..." 

"I thought - I thought it _was_ X," he stammered, his accent becoming more pronounced through panic. " _This_ I swear. I truly do like Zoey. I would never -" 

"You're damned lucky to be alive," the President broke in, moving forward to stand beside his wife. No one objected, even though that move placed him close enough to complete the attack he'd had to abort earlier. "Not just from the drug itself, but because the kidnappers didn't need you anymore. They'd have killed you in an instant if you'd caused them any trouble, just like they killed Molly O'Connor." He stopped to choke down his own sorrow and rage. "They used you, and then they tossed you aside to take the fall." 

"I had nothing to do with them!" 

"You're an accessory to a kidnapping. I don't call that _nothing!_ " 

"I was not part of their planning -" 

"Oh, but you _were._ No way could they have pulled it off without you. You weren't even present at their planning sessions, and yet you followed your lines to the _letter._ " 

Jean-Paul was getting desperate. "I am not an American citizen -" 

"You do not have diplomatic immunity." Bartlet crushed that hope at once. "And I for one am glad you _aren't_ American. Anyway, it doesn't matter. We won't even bring up extradition; you're going to stand trial right here. It's assault to drug _anyone_ against his or her will. It's just plain lunacy to try that with the daughter of the President." 

He paused, letting this chilling fact sink in. "For now, you'll stay in the Residence. That way the Secret Service can protect you from the staff here as well." Debbie knew beyond a doubt that every White House employee would line up for the opportunity to nail Zoey's betrayer to the wall. Loyalty ran deep at 1600 Pennsylvania. 

The President didn't go on, but Debbie figured that this "protection" had an added twist: it would also compel Jean-Paul to witness personally the repercussions of his actions upon the First Couple, the nation, and the world. 

"And," Abbey added in a deadly soft tone, "if you did care for Zoey in truth, you'd want to be here anyway, legal consequences aside. At the very least, _when_ she returns -" that word was very deliberately stressed "- you will have to face her and apologize." 

The boy hung his head in acquiescence. There would be no getting out of that owing-up. 

"Then there's the public fallout. You're going to be in the papers again for sure. Everyone in the United States and France will know about you _and_ your drug habit... something I bet you'd have preferred not to broadcast. Your family and your friends won't be pleased with you, for sure. And I can't see any decent woman ever wanting to trust you again. Well, your loss and their gain. You brought it all upon yourself." 

This would be a bit of personal retribution for the Bartlets. They wouldn't try to influence the trial outcome, and they wouldn't stoop to vindictive propaganda, but they couldn't prevent this news from getting out anyway. So they might as well enjoy the outcry; for once it would be in their favor. 

It also made more sense than setting Jean-Paul among the staff members two floors below and one wing west of here, however satisfying that sport might be to watch. 

Bartlet took up the thread again. "Don't waste your time trying to launch a diplomatic appeal. This has nothing to do with your nationality, your lineage, or your personal lifestyle - no matter how monumentally stupid _that_ is." 

"If the only way you can get a charge out of life is to do drugs," Abbey interposed, "then you deserve our pity." She said it quietly, too, as though she pitied him right now. And perhaps she did, despite the ever-present anger and fear. 

Her husband had no problem with her interruption; in fact he stood beside her and fully backed her up. "And you're going to need it. This is exclusively about your actions of the night before, and you'll now pay the price accordingly: as an accessory before the fact to both kidnapping and murder." 

He had to check for a moment here, fighting the combined wave of fury, grief and terror. "So far as we know, there's only _one_ count of murder. Mister, you'd better pray like you've never prayed before that the count doesn't rise." 

The next words ground out through clenched teeth. "Meanwhile, you just might like to hear what price tag has been put on Zoey's life. I've been instructed to arrange for the release from prison of three international terrorists, and to remove our armed forces from a state-of-the-art air force base in the Middle East. Buying my daughter back would hand over a chunk of devastating technology to people who _live_ for violence, and would place this entire world at the mercy of every gun-wielding maniac around. Who knows - next time they might go after a French citizen instead." 

Jean-Paul flinched. That point had struck home. 

"So... we're all in this situation because I did in fact have the power to meet those demands." Bartlet's hands closed into fists again. The two agents behind him inched closer. "That's why there's another President in the Oval Office right now, overseeing the safety of this country. That's why our federal government is in no small amount of chaos. That's why all of Washington is still under a security net. That's why the entire world is holding its breath tonight, just waiting to see what we'll do next." 

_His_ breathing was rapid and harsh, perilously close to detonation. " _That's_ the full scope of what you've done. Now live with it." 

Silence crashed down in the wake of this tirade. Jean-Paul did not move, too stunned to react or even to think. 

Forgotten to one side, Debbie witnessed all of this with great satisfaction - and she reminded herself never to get either Bartlet mad at her. The First Lady's temper was both fiercer and colder; she kept it on a tighter rein, which meant she never lost her head during the proceedings. By contrast the President exploded noisily and then burned out faster, not staying angry as long; but he remained a formidable adversary just the same. When these two joined forces... well, the person or persons on the receiving end didn't stand a chance. 

Then Bartlet let out a long, strained exhalation, and the fire that had crackled all about them dissipated with it. His eyes dropped to the floor, his volume descended almost beyond audio range. 

"No - it's really _my_ fault. If I hadn't sought re-election..." 

For the first time in this entire confrontation, Abbey turned to him. Now, at last, her features softened. 

"It's _not_ your fault, Jed. This was nothing personal aimed at Zoey or at you. It was aimed at your office. If it wasn't our child, it would be the child of someone else. And that someone else might have been even less able to deal with it." 

She reached out, bridging the space between them, and lightly grasped his arm with both hands. _"We're going to get through this."_

Anger is one of the most powerful of human emotions, but it is also transient; it has to fade at some point. Anguish is less dynamic, but far longer lasting. That anguish showed plainly in the look the First Couple now traded. Debbie felt rude to be standing here as a witness. 

From the new caste to Jean-Paul's face, that anguish had hit him harder than the rage or even the legal scenarios did. 

Clearly Ron had spotted that anguish as well. 

"Thank you, sir. Ma'am." Without waiting for an acknowledgment, without placing any more pressure on his two premier protectees, he nodded everyone else towards the door. The agent escorting Jean-Paul hauled him out at once, none too gently. The two agents who had flanked their President for his own sake glided silently around the First Couple and exited as well. The First Couple ignored them all. 

Debbie fell readily into step. Not only was she long overdue to depart anyway, but no one should intrude here any further. And yet, as she reached the threshold, she couldn't resist one last backward glance. 

Jed and Abbey Bartlet appeared oblivious of this systematic retreat from their presence. They had moved towards each other, slipping into a natural heart-to-heart embrace. 

Debbie turned away at once, preceding Ron into the hall before she could violate their privacy even more. Still, she was very glad she'd obtained even that glimpse, and she rejoiced for the parents who seemed to have found a new common ground. Perhaps their mutual unleashing against Jean-Paul had helped burn off some of the guilt and focused the pain, turning it away both from themselves and from each other. 

In a way, they had worked together against one enemy. Maybe now they'd be better able to endure waiting for news on the other. 

~ HOUR 24 ~ 

"About time!" Nancy's greeting mirrored the earlier welcome by a certain Chief Executive. "Where have you _been?_ " She rose from her boss's desk in no little concern. 

Debbie shrugged. "With the President." 

"This long? I asked the Secret Service twice if you'd left the building!" 

"What'd I miss?" The executive secretary waited until her assistant had stepped aside, then resumed her own chair. 

"Not a whisper. I hope _your_ interlude was more entertaining." 

"For me, and for him." Debbie did an automatic system check, but everything was in its place and no new papers awaited her instant attention. What a relief. "He needed a distraction." 

Nancy raised a polite eyebrow. 

"He's got _nothing_ to do. It's the worst form of torture I can imagine \- after the abduction in the first place. He really welcomed just having a bit of company... with no political strings attached." 

After a pause, Debbie stopped and replayed in her mind their conversation so far. And felt very glad that this was Nancy and not someone who didn't know their President quite as well, because she _definitely_ could have worded a few of those phrases better. She felt positively lighthearted after seeing both him and his wife. 

"I couldn't list all the things we talked about, but I'm sure I've had enough coffee to keep me up _another_ twenty-four hours. And I can report that the First Lady is feeling at least a little better." 

"Oh, good!" After the President, the next person that the West Wing as a whole felt most protective of was his wife. 

Debbie recalled the closing scene in the sitting room, but decided against speaking of it. The First Couple didn't deserve to have their actions recounted minutely to everyone or even anyone, despite the fact that hearing of Jean-Paul's discomfiture would delight so many others. 

"Thanks for standing in so long, Nancy. You deserve a reward. Why not take a nap? President Walken will be back soon, but surely he's overdue for a snooze as well." Debbie retrieved the TV remote, increasing the set's volume a bit so that she could work and listen at the same time. 

"Thanks. I think I'll take you up on that." Nancy started out, muffling a yawn. 

Her boss returned to her paperwork. 

The news anchor's voice provided a monotonous background buzz. "As the story of Zoey Bartlet's kidnapping and President Bartlet's stepping-down continues, we're following the repercussions here at home and around the world. Right now President Walken is just leaving the U.S. Capitol, where he spoke to a special gathering of the joint leaders of Congress. We don't have the upshot of that meeting yet, but we assume that the new President wanted to outline his plans to maintain order both in the Middle East and in Washington, D.C., which is still in a lock-down - WAIT! There's some disturbance -" 

Debbie's head jerked up. 

"Something's happening with the President's party -" 

She rose from her chair and walked around her desk, each step slow and dreaded, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. 

"Police are responding -" 

She could see the dark crowds, the brilliantly-lit front steps to the Capitol, the tall figure of their new Commander-in-Chief, a mob of black suits swarming around him, another mob converging upon someone else mere feet to one side... 

"There appears to be someone under arrest -" 

Nancy dashed in from the hall, having caught the same announcement over the radio at her own desk. 

"Yes, from what we've just seen, it looks like someone has just tried to attack President Glen Walken. He's being hurried away, but we can't tell if he was injured. We don't know yet exactly what took place, or if anyone was hurt..." 

The two women stood there in silence and numbing shock, and watched this latest bit of drama unfold right before them. 

Scant minutes later Josh, C.J. and Toby charged into reception. 

"Debbie -" C.J. spoke first. 

"Were there any injuries?" the executive secretary demanded at once. She and Nancy still stood, still struggled to grasp what had just happened. 

"No," Toby assured her at once. "The Secret Service did a perfect job." 

"Thank the Lord." She meant it, too. "What happened?" 

Josh was ashen. "Some fruitcake with a handgun. That's all we've been told so far." 

"The stations say no shots were fired." 

"Seems to be the case... and a damned good thing," C.J. almost growled. "Like we haven't had more than enough of that already." 

Debbie noted how all three stuck close together. Being shot at even once was not something you ever forgot... especially when both the President and one of his staffers needed life-saving surgery as a result. The second instance, three weeks ago - one bullet fired from Pennsylvania Avenue penetrated the Press Room and missed C.J., Toby and Will by inches - hadn't produced any casualties, but it had evoked more than a few unpleasant memories. And now this. 

Toby shifted in place. "Good thing Will's there. He's got training under fire." He sure did - both in his military training, and right here in the White House. "Besides, he wasn't at Rosslyn himself." 

Josh's head snapped around. "But Leo _was._ " 

"Leo can handle _anything,_ " C.J. stated with unshakable conviction. "Charlie's the one I'm worried about." 

Debbie's eyes widened a bit more at that. 

"The real question is, how is Walken handling this?" Josh wondered aloud. They were all so keyed up that formality fell by the wayside in favor of brevity. 

"He was never in any real danger as Speaker," Toby pointed out. "Not even after Hoynes resigned and he moved up to next in line. He's never served in the military. I don't know if he's ever been around guns before in his life." 

C.J. nodded a somber agreement. "The President had fifteen months in office before anyone took a shot at him. Walken had just fifteen _hours_ to get used to the idea that someone might shoot at _him._ " 

Josh held himself very still, a substantial anomaly. "Guess he has a better understanding now of what the President goes through all the time. And a better understanding of our stance on gun control." 

"Don't bring that up now," C.J. advised. "Not unless _he_ does. Give him time to get over the scare." 

This trio had full sympathy for what their Acting President had just gone through. _Was going_ through. 

"But this might work in our favor," Josh persisted. His job and his nature rebelled against not taking some kind of action. _Any_ action. "Look on the bright side - maybe it'll convince him to tighten the grip on the gun laws. We might as well reap _some_ benefit!" 

"It almost could make him even more fixated on his hard stance against the Middle East," Toby mentioned, clearly not liking that prospect. "He's still too new at this; he hasn't got the hang of dividing his attention between _here_ and _there._ " 

C.J. folded her arms. "Then there's the minor detail that the country already took one _big_ hit just last night, and another earlier this morning. One more so soon isn't going to boost their morale any higher, or make our job any easier. Walken has to address the nation about this, and fast, just to calm everyone down. Which means he's got to be in control and prepared for it. He may need our help in a _few_ areas." 

Pause. Debbie observed in silence, very glad that this discussion was taking place in her presence. Now she wouldn't have to scrounge for as much information from Charlie, or from Walken himself. 

Toby's reserved expression, guarded even at a time like this, became grimmer still. 

"Toby?" C.J. noticed first. Whatever had occurred to him, regardless of how ugly, no doubt they all should hear it. 

He exhaled slowly. "I gave up expecting the best from every person a long time ago." His hesitation added to the suspense. "Could Walken have arranged this?" 

All four listeners gaped at him. 

"For publicity?" C.J. clarified. "A near miss, to make him look brave and heroic?" 

Everyone stared at everyone else. The suspicion might not be totally unwarranted. The Newseum resulted in panic, pain and fear - yet out of every evil thing can still come some good. It also gifted Jed Bartlet with a definite jump in the polls: for his narrow brush with death, for his courageous demeanor throughout, and for his strength afterwards. Still, that happened more than a year into his first term, when people had already begun to see the good qualities he brought to the job. He'd even been enjoying an extra rise in popularity before the fact. Plus, no sane individual would ever accuse him of agreeing to a stunt that endangered his daughter. 

The disturbed man who turned an automatic rifle on the White House had never posed a concrete threat to the President - just to himself. The excitement died down fast. From a cynical viewpoint, a repeat could have been a relatively safe prank... but if you were going for impact you wouldn't use exactly the same scenario a second time. 

Walken was new: brought in not by the will of the people, but by the consensus of the government. Brought in not by a mere election, but by a national crisis. For sure he didn't feel welcome, much less popular. 

Emotions had been strained all day in every quarter, making it harder to work... harder to trust on all sides. 

"I don't believe it." Josh sounded pretty sure. "You can't just stage something like this. You need a real gun and real bullets - no blanks, otherwise it's not a credible threat and he won't look as good. You need an actor who's willing to go to jail for attacking the President, 'cause that's where he's headed unless he confesses that it _was_ a set-up. And you need a safety net in case the gun goes off accidentally. I don't see Walken risking his life just to look better in the news for a couple of days." 

Another pause. Debbie and Nancy traded anxious glances. 

"You're probably right." Toby sounded like he was genuinely glad to lose an argument for once. 

"Besides," C.J. added her two cents, "he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who feels he needs to _make_ people like him. He does what he believes he has to do, and the devil take the hindmost -" 

Suddenly everyone turned. From here they couldn't detect the sirens of the motorcade arriving on the other side of the White House, but they all saw the rapid parade of many dark shadows along the Portico right outside reception. The presidential party had returned safe and sound - its security beefed way up. 

Josh stepped forward at once, assuming the responsibility for bringing the West Wing senior staff into the Oval Office, uninvited, right after an assassination attempt. C.J. and Toby followed unhesitatingly. These three would be hugely useful to Walken in more ways than one. 

Only when the door closed behind them did Nancy make any move to leave. The glance she tossed at Debbie begged to be kept informed. 

Alone now, Debbie checked the time... and felt a chill. It was almost midnight. Just over twenty-four hours since Zoey disappeared and Molly died. 

She remembered the FBI's calculated odds of success, based upon brutal experience, which Zoey's father had brought up barely an hour ago. 

For all intents and purposes, they'd lost their real President; he could not legally take part in any of this. And now they'd come to within an inch of losing their Acting President as well. 

Debbie had experienced Rosslyn only through the news, indirectly. The gunplay in the Press Room had been almost unreal, the shooter unseen, the White House secure, the Secret Service in full control on all sides at all times. _This_ one had taken place, in effect, right before her eyes, to people she knew, in the open and vulnerable, while she stood here safe and too far away to help. She was at a total loss as to how to react, what to say, what to do. 

She wandered back towards her desk, wondering vaguely what might happen next... 

The white wooden door opened, to emit the President's personal aide. 

Debbie resisted the intense desire to pounce upon him and make sure he was all right, both physically and mentally. She fervently hoped he'd tell her if he wasn't. 

Charlie reached his own seat easily enough, not limping or displaying any sign of injury. His dark skin didn't allow much change to show from an abrupt drop in blood flow to the face. But his eyes gave him away. Debbie saw something there that she'd never seen in this young man before, something she had no hope of defining. 

He looked at her... and then down. He didn't shake visibly; he just sat there, very still, as though afraid to move. 

She gave him a few moments of quiet, but that couldn't last. She needed information, and he needed to avoid slipping into catatonia. Talking would help them both. 

On the other hand, talking about himself would only drive him further away. 

"How's Will?" 

"He's okay." Judging by the flat yet straightforward tone, she gathered that Will had escaped unscathed on all counts. One positive thing. 

"Leo?" 

This time Charlie did hedge a bit. "He's... he's fine." Pause. "He's a soldier." Meaning that Leo's military war experience had come in handy yet again. He'd escaped Vietnam, and he'd escaped Rosslyn; he could handle both Walken and Bartlet at their worst. He'd deal with this emotional trauma all right. 

Debbie nodded. Waited another couple of seconds. "And... the boss?" 

And still Charlie didn't actually look at her. "He's - pale. But in control." 

She breathed out in relief. _"Good."_

At least there hadn't been bullets flying his way. At least he hadn't been hit. 

At least he hadn't witnessed _others_ being hit. For many people that's worse than any pain of your own. 

A nerve-racking silence descended. All it would have taken was one split-instant delay by the bodyguards, one squeeze of a trigger finger, and they'd have to bury their one-day-old President. And find another candidate. And keep this nation from shattering completely. Which it already was doing, if its citizens felt driven to act like _that!_

Meanwhile, none of this would help Zoey's situation. In fact, the kidnapping now risked being thrust from the foreground and reduced in importance. Even deprived of resources. 

What on earth could either of these two employees say? 

"We got a partial report in the limo," Charlie said out of the blue. 

Debbie swung back fast. This was more than she'd dared hope for so soon. 

Now he did look at her. "The gunman's certifiable. But they're pretty sure they know what his motive was." 

She shook her head in disbelief. "Okay, so he doesn't subscribe to logic as we understand it. But what motive could even a lunatic come up with for killing the Acting CiC? How can _anyone_ make enemies that fast? Or is it just the office? Is this all a coincidence? Would he have gone after the _real_ President if he'd had the chance?" 

Charlie didn't move, warning by his very immobility that this revelation would not be pleasant. 

"He believes that President Walken engineered Zoey's kidnapping... in order to remove President Bartlet from office and take his place." 

Debbie felt her jaw drop. 

Even nutcases can have their twisted version of loyalty, and even staunch supporters can act with a total disregard for reason or respect of others. The human race, as a race, is terminally insane. 

Charlie had blamed himself for months after the Newseum, since it had been because of him - and Zoey - that three youths opened fire on the President of the United States. Zoey had felt guilty as well, for the same reason. 

And now... now this new attack, _also_ directly because of Jed Bartlet's youngest daughter. 

The turmoil Charlie currently felt wasn't for himself at all. 

~ HOUR 25 ~ 

"Debbie! Over here!" 

The executive secretary carried her tray towards Donna's waving hand, in a far corner of the West Wing mess. "So you finally convinced Josh to stop starving you?" 

The assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff dimpled. "He's napping in his office. I put a guard on his door. But I could almost ask you the same." 

"I had to convince _myself._ " Debbie looked at her dismally nutritious tray contents. "Even chocoholics need to eat something more substantial now and then." 

"Chocolate keeps the body and soul together. Well, that and coffee." 

"No coffee this time. I'm due for a nap myself." Debbie firmed her lips, masking the almost unbearable desire to yawn. Between her ever-growing fatigue and a full stomach - thanks to a healthier menu - she had no doubt she'd doze off at once this time. 

She didn't bring up the Capitol shooting attempt; that subject had been unofficially banned around here. Everyone in the White House was determined to ignore it, to not be distracted, to give no ground on any issue out of fear. 

She had already spoken - or rather, _not_ spoken - about it to Walken. He'd dived straight back into his work and done his level best to forget it ever happened, simply refusing to even think of what _could_ have happened. He'd wanted distraction, not counseling. Of course Debbie felt rather uncomfortable offering counsel to _him,_ even after her essays into the field with Charlie, but she'd offered it anyway. So had all of the senior staff, extending their own painful experience with this kind of senseless violence. And all had been virtually ignored. 

However, just knowing that the staff and, to some extent, the nation had rallied around him, anxious to make sure he was all right, did leave a positive impression in the Acting President's mind and in his attitude. They all saw it, and rejoiced in it. 

Now Debbie pushed that recollection away, looking forward to a less loaded conversation here. "So, did you choose this secluded table for an ulterior motive?" She started on her salad. 

"Yes." 

She paused, fork in the air. Donna leaned a bit closer. 

"Do you know the White House is being practically flooded with ransom notes?" So much for a less loaded subject. 

"No, but if you hum a few bars I'll fake it." Debbie almost grinned at Donna's blink of confusion; that joke _was_ very old. However, the seriousness of their conversation killed any further amusement dead. "These ransom demands are from different organizations?" 

Donna nodded worriedly. "All claiming to have Zoey. Most include a photo." 

"Everyone knows what she was wearing, and any photo can be altered." Debbie stared at her lettuce without really seeing it. "So all of these messages are frauds... except _one._ The first? They got their note here fastest, after all." 

"Maybe - or maybe that group just _thought_ of it fastest. How can we _tell?_ " 

Pause. "We can't. And the Powers That Be don't dare ignore any of them, in case one that they think is false turns out to be the real thing." 

Donna was one inch shy of chewing her nails in anxiety. "Meanwhile, the people sending these notes know that we can't take that chance, which means they've got a golden opportunity to have their demands met without going up against the Secret Service in the first place. They probably figure we'd be willing to pay off _everyone_ just to make sure we're buying Zoey's freedom in there someplace." 

"Once we started that, it would never end; every militant and terrorist would come out of the woodwork." She massaged her aching temples. "These opportunists must think they've got nothing to lose - but if they're caught, they'll still be charged with fraud, and obstruction of justice as well." 

"Beats abduction and murder any day." Donna picked at her plate. "What can we _do?_ We can't negotiate with the real kidnappers. How do we even know who the real kidnappers are?" 

Debbie forced herself to eat, despite both the less-than-exciting meal and the unpleasant discussion. She needed her strength. 

That fact reminded her of a similar thought she'd had about the President not long ago. 

"Photos don't prove anything anymore," she mused aloud. "Neither would a voice over the phone. All they'd need is a good impersonator - or a good editor of old audio clips." 

"What about a live video broadcast?" Donna suggested. "Especially if she could talk to her parents; they'd ask her questions no one else would know." 

"No, too risky; a broadcast can be traced. They've got to be right here in town. The cops would be on them like the President on a rope line." 

That simile made so much sense, Donna didn't even smile. "Fingerprints?" 

Then she saw the flaw in her own argument, and her face paled a bit more. 

"That would prove who has her, but not what condition she's in," Debbie confirmed soberly. "It's not hard to lift prints from a dead body." 

Both of them sat in a silent gloom for several moments. 

Debbie stirred first. "Here's another wrinkle. Any demand from the White House for proof that Zoey is alive will imply that concessions will follow once we _have_ that proof. If we're not bargaining, then whether Zoey is alive... is immaterial." 

Donna really blanched now. True or not, that comment smashed through the human heart. "Can't we at least _pretend_ to bargain?" 

"The government can't promise to deal when it's intending not to. It has to maintain some credibility." 

"Surely the people will understand? I sure would!" 

"Maybe... but the kidnappers will protect themselves, too. They won't be easily fooled. They'd expect a double-cross at the last second, and you can bet they'll prepare accordingly." Debbie sighed, depressing herself with all these negative observations. "Anything that reduces trust will make it that much harder on everyone - especially the kidnap victim." 

Another pause. 

"I presume no one's let on that we're being inundated with ransom notes?" 

Donna shook her head firmly, long blond hair swishing. "I very much doubt it." 

"I sure hope not. If the kidnappers hear about it, they're going to _want_ to prove that they have her, so that their demands aren't ignored along with all the fakes. What extent would they go to _then?_ " 

Donna gulped. "Okay, let's leave. I am most definitely not hungry." 

Debbie shoved down a few more mouthfuls, for her own good, but right now just the smell of food almost nauseated her. They were sitting here eating, perfectly safe, while in an unknown location not all that far away a young girl's life hung by an increasingly fragile thread. 

They walked back upstairs together, and the first person they met on the main floor was C.J. She spotted them as well and changed course at once. 

Her scowl warned them of what was coming. "It's out." 

"The phony demands?" Donna interpreted, eyes wide. "How did it leak?" 

"God knows, but if there isn't hell to pay I'll be very much surprised. And _then_ I'll pay out a little hell myself. Doesn't _anyone_ get it that this will endanger Zoey even more?" The Press Secretary stomped off, fuming at the chink in their armor that had boosted their already sky-high risk factor right through the ozone layer. 

Debbie and Donna walked on together; their routes didn't diverge until quite near the Communications bullpen. This made it almost inevitable that they would encounter a few other senior staff members as well. 

Josh, of course, had been on the lookout for his wayward assistant. "Donna! The faxes are getting ahead of you." 

"If only the clues were piling up as well," she muttered. 

"Who knows - there might be a few right here." 

Donna picked up the thick pile and flipped tiredly through it. "Like panning for gold: endless sludge to sift for one little nugget. At least most of _this_ batch are messages of support." 

Debbie suddenly remembered something. "Josh, did you ever find out how this fax number became common knowledge in the first place?" 

He lifted his hands helplessly. "It was posted in a chat room. Somebody thought it would be nice if people could send us some encouragement. That somebody didn't stop to think that a lot of different people use the Internet. Some with less benign intentions." 

"Forget the stopping," Donna sniped, paging away. "They didn't _think._ Any more than your fan clubs do," she added automatically, tongue in cheek. 

"Some people are just graced with admiration." 

"And some with _delusion._ " 

Debbie clung firmly to the first idea. "And how, pray tell, did that somebody get this number in the first place?" 

"There are more candidates than I like," the Deputy Chief of Staff admitted. "Could be an intern. Me, I vote for some secretary to a senator. They fax us all the time. Anyway, the Service is on it. Someone's got to make a mistake eventually." 

"Just so long as it's not _us._ " Debbie nodded to Donna, already submerged in her work again, and headed towards the Oval Office. 

She encountered Toby en route, and guessed that he'd just come from seeing Walken. Which implied that he knew something. 

"They nailed the sender of the first fax," he said without preamble. And didn't even slow down in his passage, breezing past her at full march. 

Debbie could draw a few inferences from that crisp bulletin: the sender probably wasn't part of the abduction, since finding him hadn't let the authorities to Zoey, and he must have had some foreign ties, since his demand had been for international concessions. Still, she preferred to know for sure. "Well, thanks for the Readers Digest version." 

Exactly as planned, he expelled an angry breath at this flung gauntlet and about-faced. "I was doing you a favor. At least eighty per cent of Digest readers are women." 

"I can name one man who's in the last fifth," she returned. "Personally, I prefer the full details." Of course the Communications Director loved detail as well. 

Still, she knew his shortness was born of haste rather than irritation. This had become more of a token exchange than their previous competitive forays. 

Toby wasted no more time on banter, even the almost therapeutic value of sarcasm. "They traced him through his car plate - to a friend's house." 

"The CIA is nothing if not thorough." Debbie rather hoped _she_ couldn't be so easily tracked by that frightening association. 

"As it happens, they don't believe he's one of the kidnappers. They do think he's hiding something, though. Maybe a connection to the Bahi sleepers." 

That brought her up short. "Sleepers?" 

Toby's mouth clicked shut in abrupt realization that he's said too much. His newfound trust in Debbie and his abiding concern for the whole First Family had betrayed both professional and personal reticence. 

"Purge that," he almost pleaded. His eyes were dark and wide and very intent. 

The executive secretary knew how to keep secrets. Everyone slips now and then. Her job demanded that she forget when she happened to overhear something too nationally critical for her level. "Didn't hear a thing," she assured him, and inclined her head at his expression of relief. 

~ HOUR 26 ~ 

It's truly remarkable how a catnap, a shower and a change of clothes can make a person feel like new, especially after (or even during) a really long haul. Debbie strode briskly upstairs from the basement of the West Wing, where all staff members had graciously been invited to make use of the Secret Service on-site facilities. That organization was nothing if not prepared for the worst. 

She fingered the lapel of her clean blazer. No way did she plan to really dress down, even though most of the senior staff had switched to some variety of casual attire long ago. She sat right outside the most critical office in the world tonight. She didn't consider herself entitled to the luxury of a less than proper appearance, no matter how comfortable. Like the President in his standard business suits, she considered it a mark and badge of her position. 

It had bothered her a bit to send one of the House interns to her home and root through her closets for fresh wardrobe items, but she now heartily agreed that the required invasion of privacy was worth it. Those with their own office and closet space around here had an unfair advantage. She pondered the idea of setting up permanent lockers in some unused basement cubbyhole for the support staff. The way the world was going, it seemed inevitable that at some future point the White House would face this kind of siege all over again. Hopefully long after the Bartlet Administration. 

"Oh - Will!" She'd seen a familiar figure just ahead of her. 

He stopped, turned and waited. "Hi." 

"How's it going?" Debbie reminded herself to be at least a bit subtle. She knew the Deputy Communications Director even less well than she did the rest of the senior staff. What do you say to someone who just came back from a shooting gallery? 

In fact, it had been his second such foray within a month. 

He guessed what she meant. "I'm fully awake now." He didn't grin, but she almost did. Humor is a wonderful coping mechanism. 

She waited, inviting him to tell her as much or as little as he chose. 

"We're getting a lot of mixed reactions. That kind of close shave does bring out sympathy in surprising places - even worldwide." 

Debbie hadn't considered the international implications before this. "That's _one_ up-side. But wait; do you think a foreign cadre tried to weaken our resolve?" 

"If so, their plan backfired," Will said confidently. 

No, the White House would not be cowed. On that point at least, Walken and Bartlet were in full agreement. To say nothing of the entire staff. 

Debbie suddenly wondered how the President had reacted to the news flash. She hoped the official report would be finished soon, so that she could deliver it to him - and see him for herself. No doubt he phoned Walken at least, but he'd made no attempt to leave the Residence after his last appearance in the Oval Office. 

Now what would _that_ conversation had been like? These two Chief Executives never got the chance to talk, informally, one on one; the passing of the torch had been too fast and too uncomfortable. Bartlet hadn't been able to help prepare Walken for the job, to make the transition smoother, to provide tips and caveats and national-level advice... to offer personal guidance on the constant and very real danger that gravitates to this office. 

Two Presidents: one who had been shot three years ago, and one who had almost been shot _at_ two hours ago. Different parties and philosophies and circumstances, yet they were closely bound together now by the iron chain of shared peril. 

"Conversely," Will went on, pursuing the current topic, "the kidnappers might have arranged it themselves. The gunman's mental imbalance could be an act. Killing or even harming the Acting President would up the ante a _lot._ If this is the case, we're really making them nervous." 

"And that has pros _and_ cons." She didn't like the thought. 

He exhaled. "One unexpected pro for us is that the public isn't just cheering us on - they're actually pitching in." 

"They are?" 

"Yeah, the news of the fake ransom demands is out there in spades. There's a general uproar that some people are being so unscrupulous as to try to capitalize off Zoey's abduction." Now Will did smile. "The police and the FBI are receiving hundreds of tips. Last I heard, they've nailed three pranksters and two criminal organizations already." 

"Beautiful work!" Still, Debbie didn't feel like partying yet. The real villains remained at large, with their captive. 

"We have a new theory." Will lowered his voice. This hall was busy, but the constant traffic helped reduced the odds of anyone overhearing. "Some of those organizations might be deliberately trying to frame their enemies." 

She frowned. "And now we have another whole angle to consider. The enemy of our enemy is our friend?" 

He shrugged and turned to go. "We need all the help we can get." 

Debbie nodded in endorsement and in gratitude, and watched him head off. 

She was still mulling all this over when Charlie rounded a corner and bore down on her. 

"Debbie. I hear Jean-Paul's in the Residence." The whites of his eyes flashed. 

"Yes, he's in protective custody," she admitted calmly. "One guess why." 

The body man didn't gesture or shout, but his anger could not be denied. "I'm gonna start a petition to bring him down here." Not only was the French prince responsible for Zoey's kidnapping, but he had also indirectly caused the near-massacre two short hours ago. 

"I'll sign it." That would be the highest form of entertainment this White House ever saw - better than world-class musicians or comedians. Debbie formed a mental image of a pack of hounds hunting down a rabbit through the warren of the West Wing. 

"However, in case this makes you feel any better, the First Couple have already had their go at him. And personally I think that meted out more punishment than anything we could do." 

Charlie paused, his imagination trying to picture _that_ interview. Debbie rather hoped the President would see fit to tell him about it sometime. 

The President's personal aide did indeed find some comfort in this knowledge. Justice had already begun. 

The executive secretary resumed her route towards her desk, but she couldn't help pondering the amazing levels of allegiance and support she'd witnessed during this crisis, surpassing even the usual unquestioned loyalty of the White House. Jed and Abbey Bartlet were being anchored by their family, their friends, and all those good people trying so hard to find their daughter... even as they anchored each other. Walken really was doing a decent job of anchoring the nation, at a time when it had never risked being more rudderless. And just perhaps Debbie made a contribution as well, working to anchor the staff. 

Each one of them resembled a separate ray of light, all from different angles, descending together upon a single lens, concentrating their many wavelengths into one pure beam, one unified purpose. Anything that anyone could do to gather in even more rays and to help keep them focused would be welcomed gladly. 

The ultimate anchor, though, was hope - no matter how much it might dwindle. Hope, and prayer. The resilience of the human spirit. 

Margaret stood in reception, waiting for her. 

Debbie's heart skipped a beat, that refreshed hope faltering. 

"A large envelope just arrived." Margaret stood braced for the impact of the news she'd brought. "Hand-delivered. It contained a vial of blood - fresh." 

With each additional word, Debbie lost another few ounces of blood herself. 

They knew who had donated that specimen. They knew whose DNA would match. 


	3. In God We Trust 3

**In God We Trust**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** Debbie Fiderer is a witness to all the repercussions of Zoey's kidnapping.  
**Written:** Sept, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set in, and post-ep to, “Twenty-Five” (4th season finale) 

PHASE III: THE BEACON 

> "You will do well to pay attention to it, as to a light shining in a  
> dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your  
> heart."  
> (2 Peter 1:19)  
> 

~ HOUR 27 ~ 

Humans have an inherent fascination for mysteries. Once a puzzle gets embedded in your brain, it can be quite hard to evict. Debbie hammered steadily away at the self-replicating pile of work before her... but her stubborn thoughts snatched every unguarded moment to flit back and light upon the challenge of the thick padded envelope with their gruesome and horribly unique contents. 

How could anyone mail a package to the White House at a time like this without raising attention at the post office? Surely no one in Washington at any social level could be ignorant of basic events, and even the most laid-back postal clerk would've been at least a bit suspicious of that distinctive address at such a time. The sender risked being remembered at the least, and quite possibly having the police summoned at once. No, the envelope must have been dropped into any one of several thousand curbside mailboxes in the city. 

Okay, next step. The envelope was picked up at the box and taken to the D.C. postal processing plant. That must've been where someone noticed something. 

The White House received hundreds of letters every day, the vast majority of them addressed to the President. All such mail was screened off-site; threats and questionable objects didn't get anywhere near. This staggering volume had increased even more since Zoey's abduction with messages of sympathy and support, which would further slow the screening process... and yet the blood sample had arrived with impressive speed. Perhaps the local mail clerks had been briefed in advance on what to do if they came across something ransom-like; either way, one of them called the cops. They in turn would have alerted the Secret Service, who would have retrieved the deadly packet at once. 

All of this meant that the envelope had been mailed sometime before the most recent pickup at whatever box had been used, and after the pickup prior to that. Debbie wondered if they even knew _which_ box - not that it mattered. The sender would never have chosen the drop closest to his or her hideout. 

There was one mail pickup at every box each day, and the times varied by city region. Zoey had been missing for over twenty-six hours. How old might that sample be? 

Another thought occurred to her: the sender must have weighed the package in advance, in order to make sure it had sufficient postage. It seemed farfetched to believe that any kidnappers skilled enough to beat the best bodyguards in the world would leave any other elements of their crime to chance. They wouldn't start gambling now that someone _might_ manually forward on a package without the correct stamps, even to _this_ address in _this_ crisis. No, they'd make damned sure the incontestable proof of their guilt got through, come hell or high water. 

Which required a mail scale. Which was easy enough to buy, but not the most common household or even office appliance. Which raised the odds of one culprit at least belonging to the postal service itself... or to a small business with a lot of small mailings... or to a _very_ farsighted criminal organization. 

Well, _that_ certainly narrowed things down. 

It also implied more of a domestic and less of a foreign agency. Then again, operatives of any association in the world could enter the States with ease. Debbie wondered if this new twist would encourage Walken to spend some effort on the home front, since they now knew for sure that Zoey had be in the District - someplace. 

Debbie sighed; the entire equation was so complex that it made her head spin. 

She was just bending her mind anew to the administrative task before her when footsteps entered reception from the hall. She had very quickly trained herself to notice the difference between passersby and visitors, and to reach that distinction within the first two strides either past or across her threshold. 

Of all likely people, she might have expected the White House Chief of Staff the least. He rarely came this way, having his own direct entrance into the office that she safeguarded. 

He said nothing - just walked over to her. 

She said nothing either, realizing that he had not come from Communications and was taking the fastest, most direct route to the Oval Office for the sake of sheer efficiency. He had come to speak with her. 

"The blood sample is Zoey's." 

Debbie closed her eyes, riding the wave of dreaded verification. The Secret Service had a DNA file on every person under their protection, for just such a situation as this. 

"It's less than four hours old." 

Debbie's eyes popped open. 

"They can be that accurate? The blood bank keeps its units fresh for days by freezing them..." 

"Freezing can be detected in the cells. So we know she was alive as of eleven PM." Strangely, Leo did not seem all that optimistic. 

They shared the same long gaze and the same grim thought: that a lot could have happened since. 

The experts would put that sample through every analysis in existence, and they'd learn a lot about Zoey's condition at that four-hour-ago point: what drugs were still in her system, whether she had eaten since her abduction, if her internal chemistry was out of true... However, a blood sample could not indicate whether she was bleeding from some other wound, or had bruises, or fractures, or burns. Or brain damage. Or if she'd encountered some infection so recently that it had not yet had time to incubate. Or emotional abuse - or sexual abuse. 

Did the kidnappers think of all that? A healthy specimen would _imply_ that they were treating her well, but could not guarantee it; a less healthy one would indicate some of the ways they _were_ mistreating her, but not all _possible_ ways. A healthy specimen would raise hopes; a not-so-healthy one would inflame outrage. Even so, they were unlikely to care. One more thing that no analysis could reveal was her precise location - and theirs. 

Debbie shuddered at these awful mental images and reached for another detail. "So at least now we know who?" She didn't hesitate to ask; Leo had come to her first. He must have been at least unofficially aware of the new clearing-house system that the entire staff had adopted for sharing information through her - and tacitly approved. In a way it helped _his_ job as well. 

"There was no note enclosed." He sounded old and tired. He looked it, too. "Which means they'll be mailing us again before long." 

"With another piece of proof as well?" God only knew what form that proof might take the next time. 

He didn't bother to agree. 

Debbie could see the signs of strain here more clearly than on any other face - save that of the Bartlets themselves. Leo had to keep a nation running and an Oval Office polarized, all the while worrying no end about his best friend and his best friend's entire family. One of the most difficult tasks in his life must have been to take a stand against that friend, to watch him break, and then to physical help him walk away. And there were plenty of possibilities for future disaster that he would be forced to clean up as well, most of them at the national level. No way could Walken be under as much pressure. 

And that pressure still couldn't equal the pain of the parents. 

"How are the First Couple doing?" Debbie asked softly. 

That mailing was a true two-edged sword. The Bartlets now knew that Zoey had been alive as of very recently... but not if she still was now. They knew that any healthy person could donate such a small blood sample and suffer no ill effects, but it _could_ harm someone in severe physical trauma or deprivation. They knew that Zoey had not likely been hurt by the taking of that specimen, but she would not have given it willingly. 

They knew that the search continued, but nothing about what other clues had thus far been unearthed - or indeed if any practical progress had been made at all. 

They knew about the Capitol lunatic, incited because of Zoey's situation, and Walken's narrow escape... along with Will and Charlie and Leo himself. 

Leo's eyes dropped. There really wasn't anything to say. 

~ HOUR 28 ~ 

"Mrs. Fiderer." 

"At last!" Debbie almost leaped out of her chair at the sight of the nameless Secret Service agent who had just walked in. In most people the sudden arrival of these silent, expressionless bodyguards caused apprehension. In her case right now, it sparked eagerness. 

She managed not to snatch the extended report out of the agent's hand. "The President will so want to read this." 

"Yes, ma'am." The man turned and walked out again, his task done. 

Charlie rose from his own desk. "The report on the envelope?" 

"None other. Just let me make a copy; then you can take it right into the Oval Office, and I'll take it upstairs." 

And yet, despite that avowed haste, Debbie angled the page a bit so that he could come and glance at the basic facts over her shoulder. They were human, and directly involved, and _very_ interested themselves. 

"Standard letter-sized bubble envelope... no return address... full postage... deposit location unknown..." he read aloud in a fast mutter. 

Debbie spared no time to congratulate herself on her earlier deductions. Something else had riveted her attention. 

"Ten cc glass specimen tube, regulation rubber stopper, hole in the stopper from one small-gauge syringe." Charlie flexed his jaw. "Sounds like these guys know what they're doing after all." 

Debbie stood a bit straighter as she tried to keep up with the thoughts darting through her brain. 

"That's good news for Zoey; at least they're less likely to OD her. Of course it's not so good news for the Service; the kidnappers will be that much harder to outsmart -" 

"Charlie." Debbie's voice was low and very tightly reined. She feared to make one move or say one word more than absolutely necessary, in case by either word or deed she lost hold of the inspiration that had flitted across her consciousness. "Call Ron." 

For one endless second the body man just stared. The gleam in her eyes convinced him. He stepped away and reached for his phone with no further hesitation. 

Seconds later, or so it seemed, the fearsome Special Agent in Charge of White House security materialized in front of her. "Mrs. Fiderer." 

He knew, just as Charlie knew, that she would never have asked to see him unless it was important - and she would never have taken him from his _current_ assignment unless it was _very_ important. 

Debbie didn't even look up. "I may have something for you." Her eyes remained glued to the report in her hand. 

Ron glided closer, his intense vision following her fingertip as it touched certain words. By his very silence he urged her to explain. 

"This stamp. The furthest left of the three." She pointed to the detailed descriptions. "It sounds a lot like a stamp I saw quite recently." 

"Where?" 

"I was shopping on eBay a couple of days ago. I bid - and lost - on a special cover stamp just like this. It's a recent issue, limited edition commemorating the Old Man in the Mountain in New Hampshire." 

Which she and the President had so recently discussed. A coincidence? 

Now she did raise her head. "If it _is_ the same stamp..." 

"Then it could well be traceable." Ron appeared to grow even taller at this opportunity to pursue a real lead. "I need the website address of that auction." 

"The actual notification is on my computer at home; I don't surf at work. But the page should still be in my eBay account, and I can access that here." Debbie sat down at her desk and called up the online auction site, clicked rapidly through passwords and menus... "There. Auctions won _and_ lost in the past ten days. The one we're after is - this." 

"Print it, please." Ron had already moved to the printer. He virtual ripped the page out as it was expelled. 

Debbie watched him closely. "It's a collector's item. People don't buy these stamps over the counter at postal stations, and they don't put them on letters. And now that the Old Man has just collapsed, this design will go way up in value." 

"Then why would _anyone_ use it, much less a kidnapper?" Charlie asked. 

"Well, maybe they ran out of regular stamps and didn't dare draw attention to themselves by shopping for more. They were carrying a package addressed to the White House, after all. Or maybe they just didn't have time. That blood sample was _very_ fresh. So they used whatever stamps were at hand, no matter how unusual. Just to make sure it got here." 

"Perhaps." Ron glared at the paper as though trying to incinerate it and extract every mote of information with the very power of his gaze. 

Charlie didn't look convinced either. "You'd think they'd have planned better than that. Regular stamps are easy to get. If they were going to mail _anything_ to us from the start..." 

"Yeah, you're right." Debbie rubbed her jaw thoughtfully. "Or... maybe the stamp was used on purpose... like a taunt. A clue that they're convinced we can't decipher." 

"Could they be _that_ stupid? Like they haven't asked for enough trouble already?" 

"All criminals have to be convinced that they're geniuses and _can't_ be caught," Ron countered. "Otherwise they wouldn't commit their crimes to begin with." He scanned the page again, line by line. "But if they did do this deliberately, then that will be their fatal mistake." His voice had adopted a deadly edge. 

Debbie stiffened at another brain wave. "They couldn't know in advance that the Old Man would crumble on the same day they went after Zoey - but they would've heard about it on the news. Suddenly that stamp has become a _lot_ more appropriate as an insult - and a portent!" 

"Whatever the reason, this is a possible lead." The senior agent folded the page and quick-stepped towards the corridor. "Thank you." He was gone before she could acknowledge his professional gratitude. 

Debbie gazed after him for several seconds... and then glanced towards Charlie. 

He still stood as well, watching her. "Good thing you collect stamps." 

"It's a hobby." She studied her screen display. "I was really annoyed at losing that auction - but if this turns out to be a genuine clue, then the price will be more than worth it." 

He met her eye soberly. "Sometimes losing is a _good_ thing." 

~ HOUR 29 ~ 

With every hour, the exhaustion mounted. 

In each struggling mind, the stain rose. 

Adrenaline is the true miracle drug, capable of powering a human being to incredible feats both physical and mental. The White House worked and brainstormed furiously, its employees putting patriotism and personal loyalties before all else, and determinedly ignoring their bodies' increasing demands for rest. However, there had to be a mortal limit somewhere - and the harder the push, the bigger the crash. 

Ignorance is the true poison. Debbie was not, of course, informed of national policy details. She heard only those broad strokes that made it to the newscasters, in all their incomplete and skewed perspective. She sat right outside the office wherein these very war decisions were made, where the full facts were dissected and the advantages and disadvantages were debated... but she sat in ignorance. She was _so close_ to this source of all knowledge, and yet she knew no more than anyone else turning on a TV half a continent away. 

Debbie had agreed from the start to accept this as a price to her position. However, events had never before been so desperate, so personal, so terribly suspenseful. For the first time ever, she acknowledged the temptation to press her ear to the door. If she hadn't had so much paperwork to process, that temptation would have been even harder to resist. 

The news stations didn't help; they continued to rake over troop movements and diplomatic entreaties and flying accusations, over and over, with or without fresh data. The constant repetition had an almost hypnotic quality. 

If Zoey wasn't recovered soon, would all-out war erupt to engulf the Middle East? Would every faction blame every other faction in the hope that the U.S. forces would then descend upon and destroy their framed enemies for them? And if Zoey was rescued, and it did turn out to be a foreign organization, what would be done to the culprits? Would an entire country of innocent people be branded for the actions of a few violent maniacs? Would any American military retaliation avoid open conflict with the guilty party's allies? And did any right-minded American care? 

This had become an attack upon the soul of the United States. 

Every hour that went by further reduced the odds of a happy ending - not just for the family and friends of the kidnap victim, but for the entire world. Global peace teetered on a tightrope. At any moment now someone might yield to the final despair - or rage - and strike out at the closest presentable target, unleashing Armageddon. This could quite possibly be the day that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would at last be loosed. 

Was all of this news coverage, all of these speculations, all the rhetorical and protests, merely bracing people for the inevitable, the _unthinkable?_

World War I had been ignited by the assassination of an Austrian archduke at the hand of a Serb nationalist. World War II had been instigated by the madness of a German dictator. Would history mark the fiery birth of World War III, after decades of sustained peaceful perseverance, with the murder of a young American woman? 

Meanwhile, what about the home front? Escalating tensions in Washington especially had the more narrow-minded politicians and many other loudmouths proclaiming restriction of their most basic freedoms and a return to martial law. After all, if thirty hours of lock-down couldn't find a single girl, then why maintain this charade? Why continue to freeze transportation and cripple business, and threaten law-abiding citizens? No single life could be worth endangering all that this fair country had achieved. 

If the status quo continued much longer, there might be a genuine civil uprising against the government, as more and more people were slowly led to believe that all of this was really a plot against their cherished liberties. 

And then, should the kidnapping be revealed as a domestic plot after all, the integrity of the American conscience would be placed under even greater stress. Bad enough that people from other, less refined, less civilized nations chose to indulge in such barbaric behavior... but if the leading national identity in the world gave rise to people capable of sinking to the very same depths, then what hope remained for the human race? 

Debbie did her best to eject such defeatist thoughts from her mind. They slowed her down more than the physical fatigue. She angrily fastened on _positive_ predictions and gave her very best effort to help bring those predictions true. 

Contrary to such firebrand doom-saying, the situation had not yet spiraled out of control. The West Wing maintained a tight handle on everything, juggling countless factors and weighing alternatives. Walken kept the heat turned up overseas, not letting any foreign power believe that the U.S. slept or had given up or couldn't take the pressure anymore. He also detoured to address local outcries wherever he could, with what little time he had. Between supportive statements from the more considerate Congresspeople and almost hourly briefings from the White House, you'd think that most of America understood not only the gravity of all this but also that it was temporary. 

It _had_ to be temporary. The nation's capital couldn't be sealed off forever... but then the kidnappers couldn't _hide_ forever. Very soon now, either the First Daughter would be recovered - or her body would be. 

~ HOUR 30 ~ 

One does not normally associate the White House with physical exercise; it was far more often a case of _mental_ exertion, where extended hours and prolonged brain-racking left no room between them for trips to the gym. Still, a bit of exercise can combat a lot of fatigue. In this case it helped that the White House complex had quite a bit of floor space to offer. Debbie marched down wide corridors and past State Rooms as fast as she could without looking panicked, and swung her arms as much as possible without losing all dignity. 

Had not the public tours automatically been canceled at the onset of the emergency, she wouldn't have dared leave the West Wing itself during standard business hours. Being photographed by curious visitors, hoping she was a senior politician or the like, held no appeal on a good day. Without those tours, the ground and first floors of the White House proper seemed more cavernous than usual. Even the extra security and the buzz of maintenance employees couldn't shake that feeling. The First Family had to feel extremely odd living in a mansion and a museum both. 

The executive secretary strode into reception, where her assistant awaited. "Your turn. Have at it." 

Nancy nodded, rose from her supervisor's desk and left without a word. These two women had entered into a sort of pact, keeping a close eye on each other and spelling each other off roughly every thirty minutes, so that neither sat in the same position long enough to suffer either muscle cramp or drowsiness. It was the only way they could keep going. Even coffee had started to lose its effectiveness. 

Debbie knew that the senior staff had adopted much the same code, rotating between two on call and two either snoozing or stretching their legs. Donna had organized the support staff in a similar fashion. The lower echelons boasted a large enough number base that they could afford to rest longer and more frequently; besides, they as _individuals_ weren't the ones always in demand. Sometimes being at the top of the heap was a veritable curse. 

Case in point: the President himself. 

Truthfully, if any staffer had gone to Leo or Josh and insisted that they just could not carry on, they would have been permitted to go home for a proper break. No one wanted to see _anyone_ collapse from a heart attack, and the work would only suffer if people couldn't think clearly. 

Curiously, not one such request had yet been submitted. 

Josh was trying to spell Leo off, but Leo never seemed to sleep. Debbie herself had never known before how well she could get by on two or three one-hour naps over two solid days. Perhaps something in the air or the water of the West Wing helped to build endurance. They certainly needed every advantage. 

During all this time, the members of Team A had proven that weariness did not always dull arrogance. No one knew when _they_ slept, but they still managed to always be around. And as annoying as ever. 

Their boss somehow succeeded in pacing all three, and just about everyone else as well. Leo probably cleared a half-hour now and then for him on the Oval Office couch, but no one else knew for sure. The Chief Executive was entitled to _some_ privacy, right? Especially since he got no privacy at all in the matter of medical surveillance; the military doctor on duty came by every couple of hours to make sure he was still breathing. 

And then that doctor would go upstairs to the Residence, and track the health of the _other_ President. 

Debbie had heard nothing about the results of the in-depth blood analysis. She'd heard nothing about the potential stamp clue. In all likelihood they both had yielded no further information. The hours continued to flow past, with no progress in sight... 

While there's life, there's hope... 

But _was_ there life? 

She slotted herself back into work mode, anxious to lose none of the momentum that had propelled her through the White House floor plan. They the little people could no nothing except work - and pray. 

Charlie showed up not long afterwards. "Just spoke to C.J. Looks like the press are coming on board." 

Debbie's brows lifted in amazement. "You're serious? Somebody mark this day on the calendar!" 

"Yeah, and Danny's leading the charge." 

"Now there's someone with his own division of loyalties." She had witnessed enough banter between the White House Senior Correspondent and the White House Press Secretary; she had also witnessed Danny's skill at uncovering stories regardless of who wanted them buried. He was trapped between his journalistic training, his deep desire to ferret out the story, his obvious respect for Jed Bartlet, and his personal interest in C.J. Cregg. 

Charlie reached for more work of his own. "He's got some serious contacts. He's also helping lay a few false trails in the news. He asks questions that C.J. _wants_ asked." 

"And doesn't ask the ones she wants to avoid?" Debbie's estimate of Danny Concannon rose another notch. "Good for him; that can't be easy for a reporter." 

Charlie nodded in full agreement. "He's already brought some benefits, too. C.J. says a tip from him led the Service to one of the red herring ransom writers." 

"Excellent. This might open up a whole new relationship between the White House and the fourth estate." 

Charlie leaned forward in his chair, his posture shifting subtly from pleasure at progress made to empathy for suffering endured. "I also saw Wes Davis go by." 

Debbie flinched. The Special Agent in Charge of the First Daughter's detail, and Agent O'Connor's immediate supervisor, had to be packing the greatest guilt trip of all. He'd been directly responsible for Zoey and for Molly; he'd found Zoey's abandoned panic button, and Molly's bleeding corpse. Now there was another person whom no words would ever comfort. Finding Zoey alive would only ease the pain - not eliminate it. 

Debbie wondered if Wes had spoken to Zoey's father. She couldn't guess what either would say to the other. 

She remembered the report on the rooftop sniper. _Had_ this abduction been arranged by a long-term stalker? It certainly wasn't a crime of opportunity; between spiking Jean-Paul's drugs and planting an elevated rifleman to take out the bodyguards, a lot of advance planning had gone into the details. Someone had been determined to strike against the President's daughter for some time now. 

How much additional pain would that knowledge deal to the First Couple? To think that a merciless predator had been closing in on your daughter all along, and you never even suspected it... 

Next question: what _other_ evil awaited their family? 

As though he had tuned into her thoughts, Charlie lit upon the name guaranteed to light a fire under his tail. "I just hope Jean-Paul gets the prison sentence he deserves." 

Here was another topic that Debbie found depressing. She hated to depress her colleague in turn, but he needed to be prepared for the most likely outcome. "I doubt it. Not over here, anyway." Which meant not ever; no charges would be laid by his own country. 

"The French government won't waste their time trying to protect him; he's an embarrassment to them. Besides, it'll strain Franco-American relations if they deny the President's personal request. He's gotta have the right to a say in _this_ crime." 

"Maybe... but jailing a prominent French subject, no matter how stupid or moronic he is, wouldn't help those relations either. I'd bet State will arrange to send him home - probably with an injunction never to come back to these shores." 

"That's IT?" Outrage rang in Charlie's voice as it never had before. "After all he caused? This was a crime against the entire First Family. _No one_ gets away with assaulting our President. There are principles!" 

"If Zoey dies," Debbie said quietly, "then State will have sufficient grounds to press for the full force of the law. But if she's recovered safely, he'll most likely just get the boot. The diplomatic mess wouldn't be worth it otherwise. He was a dupe, after all." 

"Diplomacy..." the body man repeated in disgust. 

"I'll take that any day, so long as it means Zoey _does_ come back." 

Pause. 

"Yeah, you're right." Charlie exhaled through his teeth. "Although I have to admit, just letting him go..." 

Debbie nodded. "Yes, it rankles me as well." 

Another pause, this one longer... and broken by a wide, masculine yawn. 

"Okay, you're hitting the sack." The executive secretary folded her arms and sat back in her chair, defying any attempt to dissuade her. "Now." 

Charlie stared blearily at her, but couldn't muster any more energy to argue. "Fine." He started to rise... 

And two imposing, unmistakable figures marched in from the hall. Debbie sat up straighter as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Advisor headed straight for the Oval Office. 

They did offer a nod to the two employees flanking their path, but neither said a word. Their dark expressions, though, said more than enough. 

Charlie didn't even have time to leap up and announce them. Admiral Fitzwallace opened the door for Dr. McNally, and followed her in, shutting it firmly behind them. 

The two employees traded a sober look. When these most senior national counselors conferred with their Commander-in-Chief, in person and together, on short notice, it was a sure sign of serious trouble. 

In all possibility, the first official order that President Glen Walken was about to sign would be a declaration of war. 

Charlie looked very awake now. "I'm staying." 

Debbie didn't bother to protest. She knew she'd be needing his help. 

~ HOUR 31 ~ 

Debbie made her way up through the Residence again, following a route that had begun to look familiar - though no less impressive for all that. In fact, the oils on the walls and the statues on the tables captured her attention even more with each successive pass. Amazingly enough, she had already decided upon some favorites. 

She shook her head at that unexpected realization and picked up her pace. She had a mission to accomplish, and it wasn't sightseeing. But then, after this crisis ended, when could she realistically expect to come upstairs in the White House again? Might as well try to memorize as much as possible. 

Outside, the dawn of the second day had arrived - and this time it brought light. The clouds were clearing; sunbeams pierced their gloom to spot the ground. Debbie hoped that this was a sign, not just a coincidence. Their situation looked blacker than ever. But if the sun could finally break through a twenty-four-hour rainstorm, couldn't a bit of truth and discovery penetrate the dread that still hung over the White House, and indeed the nation? 

Look at the light, not the shadows. Keep hoping. 

She finally arrived at the sitting room, walked past the motionless agent standing guard outside its door, and raised her hand to knock. 

"Pardon me, Mrs. Fiderer." 

She started just a bit. It was like hearing a marble column suddenly speak to you - a column that rarely moved, never changed expression, yet silently tracked every move you made. 

The agent just looked at her. "The President is not here right now." 

She couldn't prevent a frown. "Oh? I thought he'd been phoned, and knew to expect me." 

"He had to step out for awhile." 

The _former_ President, forbidden to go anywhere or do anything, had suddenly "stepped out" of the Residence, just like that? Curiouser and curiouser. However, Debbie didn't consider it her place to ask why, where or when. "Okay; this may not be a good time after all. Perhaps I should come back later...?" 

Before he could comment either way, and before she could start to beat a retreat, his head tipped in a fashion that anyone who worked around the Secret Service would recognize at once: listening to a radio message over a miniature earphone. Then he straightened, his attention turning towards the far end of the corridor. 

Debbie mirrored this pose automatically; most likely it meant that the President was about to arrive. She decided quickly that she'd wait the extra seconds and see if she could still hand over her report to him now. If now _definitely_ wasn't a good time, she would withdraw at once before he felt obliged to interrupt whatever he was doing or whomever he was with... 

Voices rounded the corner just ahead of the approaching party... then that party stepped into view. 

Three things slammed into Debbie's brain in such rapid sequence that she had no time to react between them. 

The voices sounded - happy. 

The President and the First Lady were - smiling. 

And with them - 

"ZOEY!" 

Debbie hardly realized that she had spoken aloud. She was, quite simply, bowled over. 

"Well, this is an historic moment," Jed Bartlet announced merrily. "We are looking at the very last person on the White House staff to be caught off-guard. Even Toby smiles more!" 

His words reached her from a peculiar distance. She had been totally captivated by the sight of the restored First Daughter. 

Zoey looked physically well enough, though pale. She wore a different outfit than had been splashed all over the news, yet the simple white T-shirt only accentuated the absence of any cuts, bruises or bandages. She even carried herself with reasonable calm, after what she'd been through, trying gamely to smile. In fact, she looked more embarrassed than anything else at all of this fuss over her. 

Her eyes told the rest of the story: they were red, strained and uncertain. 

Debbie did not know Zoey personally, of course; she'd only nodded to the young university graduate passing through reception to her father's office. However, the entire nation had seen those photos and those video clips. Here and now, safe and sound, reunited with her parents, her ordeal _physically_ over, she appeared at least slightly different from the relaxed and cheerful public images that had paraded before the eye of the world. More grown-up and less carefree than before. 

Just because she was home, and apparently unhurt, did not mean she was _really_ well. 

On the other hand, she had to know that - no matter what dangers had threatened in the past and might take form in the future - at this snapshot in time she was undeniably safe. 

Her parents had their own issues: indescribable relief, tremendous joy... and haunting fear that this could all happen again. They stayed close to their little girl, trying not to cling. 

The President let out a dry chuckle, his first such in almost two full days. "What I wouldn't give for a camera." He was thoroughly enjoying his secretary's stunned reaction. 

"You didn't see your own face when we received the news," his wife countered. She too had shed a mountain's mass of weight and stress. 

"Wish _I'd_ seen it," Zoey joked, striving to act as normal as possible. She did have a lot of both her parents' strength. 

"You'll get lots _more_ opportunities to see him," her mother promised, so firmly as to sound downright possessive. 

"Sure. You'll never let me out of your sight again." 

Plainly the initial giddiness of their reunion had passed, and in its place was an abiding peace in each other's presence. There is no more vital and fundamental bond than family. 

This exchange, so light, so utterly normal and so long missed, brought Debbie back to herself. 

"If you'll excuse me, sir. Ma'am." She glanced at both, making at least an appearance of formally asking permission. Then, not waiting for their response, she refastened her gaze on the First Daughter. 

Her smile didn't broaden any further, but it didn't fade either. 

"It's fabulous to see you, Zoey." 

The First Daughter turned pink, and brushed her long, straight dark hair back to mask that fact. Without a doubt, there would be many more moments like this. "Thanks." 

Her gratitude was genuine. Embarrassment couldn't outshine the fact that everyone had been worried about her safety, and that everyone would be thrilled for her return. 

She had long been used to drawing attention wherever she went, almost exclusively because of her parents' identities... and she hadn't always enjoyed it. The danger had been an extreme example of that same attention. Now, because of that danger, she was no longer a peripheral character. This time she hadn't risked making waves that would reflect badly on others. This time, it had been her parents - and their friends, and their staffers, and their supporters, and indeed the entire nation - who had sprung to protect _her._

If only that marvelous reassurance of love hadn't demanded such a high price... 

No one would blame this rescued victim for feeling uncomfortable, afraid or angry. She did look a bit shaky, and would probably not want to go out in public for some time to come. Debbie hoped with all her heart that the fear and the anger would fade fast, so that life and the joy of life would go on. 

For the First Couple, joy had already kicked in. The President almost bounced on his toes, the way he had when brimming with energy or mischief, and his beaming grin didn't lose its wattage for one second. The First Lady was quieter, less physically vibrant, yet she too couldn't restrain her smile. A light seemed to gather around them, and their eyes simply shone. 

They were acting normal again. Everyone in this White House had lived with fear and anxiety for so long - could it possibly have been only a day and a half? - that Debbie found the return to happiness almost jarring. Enormously welcome, of course... yet such a contrast that she had to pause and soak up the contrast itself. 

The mystery of where they had "stepped out" to, when going anywhere had been firmly discouraged for both, was now solved; they would've been informed the moment Zoey's rescue achieved success, and they would've gone straight to a private White House entrance to receive her personally. At least _that_ moment had not had any witnesses... except the Secret Service operatives who made all this possible. 

Which reminded the executive secretary of something else: _her_ presence. "I, uh, apologize for this intrusion." She drew away. No one else should be here with them now. 

"Quite all right." Bartlet could well afford to be a bit magnanimous. "Feel free to play town crier," he graciously offered, still grinning away. 

The picture of her running through the White House, shouting this wonderful news at the top of her lungs, actually held some appeal - her reserved reputation be damned. 

"I will and gladly. _Thank you._ " She inclined her head in formal salute to all three, and took her leave. 

The Bartlets might be back to normal, but she wasn't. This must be euphoria - when you're convinced your feet don't even touch the ground. Debbie tried not to literally skip along the hall and dash down the stairs. First off, she didn't want to fall headfirst down said stairs. Second, anyone seeing her now would guess what news she possessed, and it really would be proper if she took that news to the Oval Office first. 

Then she would see about getting it out to the rest of the White House ASAP. Would this be a justifiable occasion to use the emergency-only all-call? 

Nah - she just had to tell two or three support staffers, and they'd spread it faster than any public address system ever invented. 

So the executive secretary tried to maintain _some_ decorum as she hurried towards the West Wing. Her feet had no chance to keep pace with her spinning mind anyway. 

Zoey seemed to have pulled through rather well. Debbie knew, both from inevitable news reports and from the direct experience of one friend, how an assault of any kind could crush the spirit. At least the assailants in this case had treated their captive with remarkable consideration, especially for a cadre of murderers. Let no one ask why, but be content to have it so. 

The long-term effects wouldn't go away at once, of course, either for Zoey or for the rest of them - but there would be a few immediate short-term benefits. For example, now everyone could _sleep!_

And there was one long-term consequence that just might be averted after all, regardless of who had engineered this abduction in the first place: the case for world war. Now the United States would be less frantic, less furious, more willing to proceed slowly and methodically to nail all the perps - and _only_ the perps. Which would vastly reduce the number of casualties on either side. Which would in turn reduce the desire of the perps' allies to pitch in, since charges would be leveled at individuals or organizations rather than countries or factions. 

Armageddon had been deflected at the absolute last minute. Debbie couldn't hide her grin any longer. 

Then she almost started to run after all - not in exhilaration, but in concern. Walken needed to receive this information fast, before he made one more decision. And he might be making that very decision _right now!_

Then, with alarming suddenness, she remembered an extra detail... and she couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to her sooner. 

_Jed Bartlet could return to office._

If this had been a movie or TV show, the beatific music would have cued in right now. Debbie suddenly understood the cliché of one's heart overflowing with thankfulness and praise. She heartily blessed the Almighty, whatever form He or She preferred to assume, for bringing this about at last. 

It meant an extension to the fragile peace of this troubled world. It meant an end to confusion and conflict in the government of the world's strongest - and at present most precarious - nation. It meant a newfound hope in the soul of every decent citizen that good shall triumph. It meant justice meted out to the guilty parties, and fair warning extended to like-minded criminals. It meant upholding the noble standard of not permitting fear and violence to assume dominance. It meant relief of pain and terror for friends and family of the former victim. And it meant freedom and safety for the victim herself. 

It meant that the United States had been tested and remained true. It meant that the federal government had proven its ability to apply the Constitution and maintain national order despite party divisions and personal disagreements. It meant that life in the White House would return to normal... stronger and more determined than ever. 

It meant that the human spirit had not been defeated. 

Debbie also blessed the Secret Service and whatever other strike force had accomplished the rescue; the police and whoever else had helped collate the facts and locate the hideout; the military advisors who had counseled against a rapid military response; the members of Congress who had put their differences aside; the White House staff, administrative, domestic and general, who had stood firm through the worst of this despite exhaustion and the threat of despair. 

She blessed the tenacious root of hope that had kept them all from giving up. 

It had taken all of their efforts together - mortal and immortal. And they did it. 

Fortunately she arrived in reception right then; she didn't think she could hold herself to a walk any longer. 

The sun streamed through the tall glass doors leading out onto the Portico, as though the sun itself was laughing in delight. 

Soon, very soon, the whole world would laugh along. 

Charlie was not at his desk. Debbie hoped she would find him inside, so that he could hear this firsthand as well. 

Nancy sat at her supervisor's desk. She looked up - and her eyes widened comically at the miraculous sight of Debbie Fiderer smiling from ear to ear. 

These two women didn't trade a word. Both knew in a flash what the other was thinking. Nancy split into a huge grin herself, then made a grand gesture with one arm towards that white wooden door, inviting her boss to enter and unleash a nationwide celebration. 

Debbie looked forward to that moment in spades. In the meantime, she knew, Nancy would start spreading the word. They didn't need the details to cheer the happy ending. 

The executive secretary restrained herself long enough to knock, and to wrestle down the most visible signs of her glee, and then entered. 

She couldn't have timed it better. All members of both Team B and Team A were present. So was Charlie. Fitzwallace and Nancy McNally were _not,_ to her abiding relief; their absence suggested that war hadn't actually broken out yet. 

The two sets of teamsters were arguing back and forth about some matter, their voices rising and ebbing and overlapping. She made no attempt to follow along. She just stood and waited, smile suppressed, her whole being focused on what she had to say. 

"Mrs. Fiderer?" Walken had finally noticed her silent stillness. 

He still sat behind that desk. He was still officially in charge. His voice cut through the debate nearby and drew everyone's attention. 

Debbie could not have asked for a better call to order. Or a better setting: the sunlight poured through those glass windows onto the polished furniture and the rich blue carpet. 

"Mr. President." She paused for one delicious moment. How could they not sense her anticipation? They'd expect _something_ important... but not this. 

"Zoey Bartlet - is safe." 

One split-instant of absolute, shocked silence - 

Will, the military reservist, the new one, the quiet one, let out a whoop in total defiance of his usual image. C.J. and Josh immediately proceeded to drown him out with their own cheers, then threw their arms around each other in a bear hug. Toby drew in one huge breath and then slowly let it out, his whole posture sagging as he expelled all the strain of the past two days. 

Charlie staggered backwards, on the verge of falling over. Will stepped sideways and shored him up. The body man's dark skin tended to mask his expressions at times - but one who knew him could plainly read the impact that Debbie's brief statement had delivered to his brain. 

Leo, who usually knew _everything_ that happened here, looked no less amazed. "Who had her?" he asked urgently, his voice pitched to carry over the jubilation. From his position as chief strategist, that was the information he needed most. 

"I have no details." Debbie didn't feel the least bit contrite; that sort of thing could wait a bit longer. "But she's with her parents right now, and she seems to be physically well." 

"Who needs details?" C.J. laughed, on the verge of weeping in sheer relief and gratitude. 

"The press, for one," Toby observed dryly... but he too seemed content just to soak up the moment. 

"Well, I could care less. They'll just have to settle for the headline edition. I am _not_ going upstairs to get the scoop myself!" 

"No one is." Leo issued that declaration with all the authority of which he was capable. The First Family would receive their much-deserved time together, guaranteed. 

"She's really okay?" Charlie still couldn't believe it. 

Debbie nodded, unable to resist her own smile any longer. "She's not mentally unscathed, but she seems to be physically better off than any of us dared hope." 

"That is great news." Walken's bass tones rose above this Babel. 

He had sounded like he meant it, too. Of course, any decent human being would. 

The West Wing staffers all did a double take. In their elation over Zoey's well-being, they had totally forgotten what Zoey's rescue meant to _him:_ loss of his position as the effective leader of the free world. 

He still didn't break into a grin... but his usual glower softened in genuine relief. 

Who knew - perhaps he himself would be glad to vacate this office. 

Debbie almost hoped so. As much as she preferred the _real_ President, Walken had equipped himself well. He had stepped into one of the most difficult jobs in the world, with no preparation and little warning, and he'd risen to the challenge. She didn't like the idea of him being thrown out of the Oval Office in much the same way that Bartlet had been. 

If he was _willing_ to leave, that constituted a whole different matter. 

As might be expected, his three personal employees looked considerably less enthused. On the other hand, they all had the grace to show some gladness for Zoey's sake, if nothing else. Even the most rabid politician didn't normally desire to advance at the price of a _murder._ Either Julien was the best actor of the trio, or the softest hearted. 

And so ended the Walken Administration - 

The back door to this ovoid chamber swung open without a knock. 

Everyone whirled that way. Debbie experienced a surge of déjà vu, and suspected that Leo did too. 

No; this time it _was_ the Secret Service. Ron marched in at the head of four fellow agents. Instantly everyone fell silent, watching them uneasily. 

He and his men stopped about halfway in, almost directly between the two groups of Team players. "Mr. President." He showed no hesitation in that title. 

"We've already heard that Zoey is home." Walken gave him a brisk nod. "Fine work." 

Debbie found it odd that Ron would invade this office in strength, save during an alert. Had something else happened? At least none of the quintet seemed in any kind of hurry, a reassuring sign. 

Or had he brought those agents most responsible for the rescue, to be praised by their leader? 

"Thank you, sir. However, that's not why I'm here." 

Everyone's nervousness went up another notch. 

Ron's cool glare shifted sideways from the "Resolute" desk and the man behind it... to the three men standing in a cluster near it. 

"Darrow Goldwater. Brad Harris." The senior agent never raised his voice except in a crisis. This time his words rang like the hammer blows of a blacksmith. "You are both under arrest for kidnapping, murder and treason." 

If Debbie's announcement had solidified this room in shock... 

_"What?"_ Nothing that Walken had encountered since he was sworn in, no matter how momentous, had managed to astonish him before now. 

"WHAT?" Darrow echoed, falling back a step. 

Brad just stood there, mouth working yet no sound emerging. Julien stared at both of them, the stereotypical image of slack-jawed and bug-eyed. 

Ron addressed his President, but kept his eyes on his suspects. "The captors of Zoey Bartlet have been apprehended. We have conclusive evidence that Darrow and Brad conspired with them all along. Not just confessions, but proof." 

The West Wing staff resembled a series of pillars, motionless and silent from the sheer disbelief. Debbie felt like she'd been encased in glue, unable to move or even think. 

Slowly, Walken rose, as though this accusation actively opposed all movement. 

"Well?" he demanded, with dangerous softness. The Service would never have made such an outrageous claim unless convinced it was true. 

The two accused knew that as well. They also knew the reputation that the Service had earned and maintained for almost a century. It apparently didn't even occur to them to offer any protest. They'd never be believed. 

"Well..." Darrow thought about it a bit more, then faced his boss and stood at attention - almost proudly. "Yeah." 

No one so much as twitched. 

"Why?" Walken's deep rumble seemed to rise up through the earth's crust. 

" _Why?_ To get you in as President, sir! What else?" 

No doubt everyone noticed not only a total lack of regret or remorse on Darrow's part, but a definite sense of pride at his accomplishment. He didn't seem too bothered that he'd been found out. 

That begged an even bigger "Why?" than did the actual motive. Did he expect that his boss, and his President, would appreciate these efforts on his behalf and support him? Even waive the charges? As Chief Executive, he legally could. 

Brad, by contrast, looked rather less self-assured. 

"By all means, explain to me." Strangely, Walken didn't look horrified or enraged... more like simply curious as to the reason. 

"Of course, sir!" Darrow didn't hesitate, eager to boast - which meant he must have honestly believed his leader _would_ protect him in the end. "When Vice President Hoynes resigned, it was a golden opportunity to get you into the White House. You were next in line. No way could we pass up the chance. They might've nominated a new VP at any moment. This was our only shot, so we seized the initiative." 

The senior staff traded glances that went far beyond disbelief. 

"But to do that, you had to get rid of President Bartlet first," Walken said with astonishing calm. 

"Sir, we never had any intention of hurting anyone. We never considered attacking Bartlet physically." In this recitation, Darrow paid no further mind to social niceties. "We just needed a way for him to resign. We wouldn't have _dreamed_ of harming his daughter, either. In fact we made sure that the guys we hired to grab her knew they had to treat her _very_ well. Good food, fresh clothes, comfortable room... she couldn't have been better off." 

A few other faces in this room were taking on a distinct reddish hue. What about the claustrophobia, the boredom and the _fear?_

"How very humane of you," Walken observed flatly. 

"We're not _villains,_ sir. We had this whole thing mapped out. It would only have lasted a few days - no more. No way could Bartlet do his job while his daughter's missing. He _had_ to step down, _soon._ Which brought you in like clockwork. Even on a temp basis, you had the perfect chance to strut your stuff. The whole country saw what a prize they got in exchange. Between public support for you and worry about Zoey, Bartlet never would've been able to just linger here, doing nothing, for days on end. Sooner or later he'd have resigned completely." 

Darrow grinned, proud of his intricate planning. "Then the kidnappers would've pretended to get more lax and given Zoey a chance to escape. So she'd be home safe, the abductors would never be caught... and you'd have the Presidency for good!" 

Pause. Almost every face in the room was a kaleidoscope of amazed outrage - save Brad... and the Acting President himself. 

"Indeed," Walken murmured, acting as though he could see the logic to all of this. Then he strolled around the executive desk, coming closer, not wanting to miss a word. 

The self-styled Chief of Staff had apparently forgotten about their other witnesses, so eager was he to justify his actions and make sure his boss understood the whole truth. "Yes, _sir!_ And even though Zoey's been recovered, it doesn't change the fact that you're here now! We did it! We pulled it off for you!" 

He made it sound like he was the most loyal employee the former Speaker ever had, ambitious exclusively for his boss's sake. That ambition would, of course, now be recognized and accepted as a valid defense against the laws they'd technically broken - or rather, been forced to break, in order to fulfill a higher cause. This rhetoric also boosted Brad's confidence a bit; he bobbed his head in agreement at their coup. 

"You certainly did." Walken turned his massive head a few more degrees. "Julien? You didn't contribute as well?" 

Julien looked horrified at the very thought. "No, _sir!_ I knew nothing of this -" 

"We didn't feel safe bringing him in, sir," Brad contributed for the first time. "He's too honest. We couldn't be sure he'd go for this sleight of hand." 

Julien looked both insulted and relieved at the same time. Brad made it sound like that honesty had been a real disadvantage by political standards, making Julien less useful to his boss than his colleagues were. It had also spared him the risk of a jail sentence. 

"Yes, that's one term for it." Walken didn't offer any other possible terms, such as treason. "The end justifies the means, huh?" 

"Yes, sir," Darrow confirmed at once. "Once we got you in, it was smooth sailing." 

"Really? There must've been a _few_ blips in there someplace..." 

Brad decided to pitch in a bit more. "Oh, we planned for a lot in advance. Our office had the fax number to the Communications Department all along; we send stuff here all the time. We wanted at least one distraction, so I posted the number on the Internet. Sure enough, people started faxing all sorts of notes. It kept the other team nice and busy." 

The other Team bristled in unison, yet did not move or speak. There was something weirdly captivating about this whole revelation. 

"That was clever," Walken admitted almost genially. Perhaps he was trying in his own way to draw out every bit of information he could. Surely he didn't _approve?_ "And then you leaked the phony ransom demands." 

"Yes, sir! Nice red herring, I think you'll agree." 

C.J. bared her teeth in a snarl. Toby put a restraining hand on her arm. Sure, the public furor hadn't added to Zoey's risk after all - but they didn't known that at the time. Besides, being used like this would do no one's temper any good. However, erupting now would end the flow of facts that they all wanted. 

"I certainly do agree." Walken settled himself a bit firmer in place, even though his bulk never seemed less than solidly planted. It had been a deliberate motion, hinting at special import. "Tell me, did you also arrange that stunt outside the Capitol yesterday?" 

Will and Charlie both stood a bit straighter. Had their lives been seen as mere collateral, less than valueless to these two plotters? 

"Good God, _no,_ sir!" Brad looked horrified at the thought and the memory. "We'd _never_ put you at risk like that." Of course, putting his boss at risk of making a bad decision for the entire world didn't count. "That scared _us,_ too. We were right there as well. Man, it's hard to believe that people will go such an extent to make their views known." 

He apparently failed to notice the hypocrisy of that statement when compared to his own actions of late. Josh turned away and ran a hand through his hair, his trademark gesture of self-restraint, and just barely choked down a groan. 

"Still, sir, you have to admit, it was perfect for PR value. People really started to appreciate you - even around here." 

So, the White House staff refused to appreciate anyone until he or she stood right in the line of fire? Debbie gritted her teeth against a deeply affronted outburst on her part, and wondered at the control of her silent colleagues. 

"I'm glad you didn't feel _that_ need." Walken paused, as though recalling something else. Or perhaps he had never forgotten it in the first place. "Too bad y'all couldn't pull this off without killing anyone else." 

Darrow nodded, showing the first tinge of regret. "Yes, sir, that really was too bad. We'd arranged the whole drug swap so there wouldn't be any need for violence. I admit that our ground operatives went too far in killing that woman agent." 

_That_ was big of him. Ron's already-fierce vision narrowed into laser beams of pure intensity. He and his cohorts had sworn to take the bullet if need be, but they never viewed life and death as casually as this. 

"Still, they're the experts at this sort of thing. I have to trust their judgment that they had no choice." Darrow made it sound like he'd commanded a military operation - a pitiful parody of the real forces that had helped to rescue Zoey and to maintain world peace all through this emergency. "Same with the dealer. Others knew he'd sold X to that French boyfriend before. He'd have given us all away in a hot second." 

Darrow shrugged, unconcerned with the outcome and the price in blood. "Besides, by that point we were all committed to the plan anyway. No turning back." 

"All or nothing," the Acting President appeared to agree. He had segued into a different mood, though, so subtly that his two most devoted supporters did not at first notice. The others standing further way picked up on it a bit faster - and liked what they saw. 

"So you went to all this effort just so's you could get a Republican into the White House?" 

Suddenly Brad seemed to get the idea that their plan had not met with as much executive approval as they'd expected and believed. He shrank into himself. 

Darrow filled the void, eager to make his point. "This has nothing to do with the party, sir. They didn't even have the sense to give you the nomination. This isn't politics - this is _power._ I wanted _us_ in the White House. This chance was tailor-made; only one man stood in your way. This is for the leadership of the whole world! And it's even better than I thought! Here, we work with entire nations! We get to control armies, manipulate lives..." 

He sounded like a youngster playing with toy soldiers. Watching his boss debate whether or not to start a _real_ war hadn't impressed him with the true consequences or the appalling cost. His slip from "we" to "I" implied that he was the brains behind the outfit. Also, his repeated use of "we" indicated how much he saw himself in partnership _with_ his boss, rather than subordinate _to_ his boss. He might well have seen himself as the power behind the throne. 

Contrast this to Leo, who had been accused many times by many people over the past four years of being precisely that - and yet had proven himself to be the most steadfast and trustworthy right-hand man there was. 

"Well, now there's the minor detail that Zoey is home." Walken paused, as though pondering all angles. "President Bartlet will be back in here in no time. Kinda leaves me in the lurch, doesn't it?" He seemed to be searching for a way out of this obvious drawback. 

Darrow had a ready answer to that. He positively guffawed. " _He's_ not the President anymore; _you_ are. What you say goes. Simple as that. Isn't it great?" 

Yes, clearly he considered himself practically untouchable by law or criticism. He'd not only wrangled this supreme appointment for his boss, but he'd found a way to keep his boss there. Or so he thought. And now his boss would express his abiding gratitude for such brilliance and devotion. 

Or so he thought. 

The West Wing staffers were ready to condemn him on that last statement alone, if their furious glares were anything to go by. No one dissed their President in their hearing, _ever._ Even Leo, usually the last person to lose his cool, looked positively ominous. 

Darrow continued his almost lyrical recount. "Okay, I admit I wish we hadn't been found out, but it doesn't matter now. The plans we made did the job they were intended to do. We GOT here! You're the PRESIDENT!" 

For such a big man, Glen Walken could move with blinding speed when he felt like it. Surely no one in this room saw it coming - Darrow least of all. In the blink of an eye, one massive fist exploded against the employee's jaw and smashed him completely off his feet. He hit the carpet on his spine, not far from the embroidered Great Seal, and right at Ron's feet. He hit hard, and he didn't move afterwards. 

His _former_ boss wore an expression of pure disgust... which then transmuted into mild satisfaction. 

"I don't suppose that's included in the Executive Powers section of the Constitution," he mused, with a faint breath of amusement. 

"I vote for an amendment!" Josh exclaimed, darting his hand into the air. 

Toby, C.J. and Will raised their hands in prompt endorsement. All four displayed varying degrees of a smile - and a look of honest admiration. 

Slowly, Walken surveyed the people gathered around him. Was he surprised at this instant support from the people who had started out as his rivals? 

Charlie clearly felt that it wasn't his place to vote with the senior staff, so he offered a complimentary nod instead. Denied his right to slug Jean-Paul, he'd been compensated a bit by witnessing a similar sentence handed down to the _real_ cause of Zoey's trauma. 

Debbie nodded as well, tingling with delight at this unanticipated and dramatic solution to the mystery. She'd been present for Jean-Paul's chastisement, and now for Darrow's initial settlement, and considered herself privileged indeed. 

Ron, who could be counted upon for reserve in the most trying times, raised one eyebrow - which for him was eloquent indeed. His fellow agents never shifted. 

Julien, absolved of any connection to the grand plan, lingered in the background, too stunned to move. Brad, convicted by his own words and presented with a very convincing display of his leader's opinion on all that he and his co-conspirator had done, hardly dared to breathe lest he attract that kind of attention to himself. 

Leo put it all into words. His quiet grin gave the simple phrase extra meaning. 

"Well done, Mr. President." 

~ HOUR 32 ~ 

It takes a little while to stand down from any alert. The bigger the alarm, the longer the recalibration afterwards. At least in the White House they were accustomed to fairly large problems on a regular basis, so they all knew how to slide back into normal running mode without too much delay. 

Even the White House didn't see a thirty-six-hour lock-down every other day - and it was not even eight AM. As soon as she left the Oval Office, Debbie had sent Nancy off for at least two hours of unbroken sleep downstairs. At the end of those two hours, Debbie would finally go home for a decent sleep herself, returning in the late afternoon to relieve her assistant and finish the day. By then, things would hopefully be close enough to normal operation that she'd feel safe shutting down for the entire night. 

Of course, after an adrenaline high comes the long fall. Debbie kept herself busy pushing the usual paperwork, staving off the desire to just collapse in relief that this was finally _over._

"Over" can be a very subjective condition. For Charlie, who worked opposite her and who seemed to have a strange case of recurring smiles, it wouldn't be over until he saw Zoey for himself. However, he knew without being told that it was too soon to approach her. The last thing she needed now, after being drugged by her last boyfriend, was to confront the boyfriend before - the one who could accurately say, "I told you so," even if he wouldn't be so inconsiderate as to do so. So he stayed here, toiled away, waited for an invitation, and in the meantime just basked in the relief that the woman he loved was safe. She still might not choose to return to a relationship with him, but she was safe. He asked no more. 

Debbie allowed herself a faint, indulgent grin. This was true love - love for the other's sake, not for oneself. She wondered if Zoey would now realize it as well. 

The approach of feet ended her introspection, and she looked up just as the West Wing staff walked in. Heads up, shoulders back, expressions bright. Even dour Toby didn't look quite so dour as usual. Sleep or no sleep, this quartet had been rejuvenated by the successful resolution to their latest crisis - one of the worst they or _any_ government had ever known. 

"We've been summoned," Josh announced airily. One hour ago, he would have grumbled over such a demand for his presence by this President. 

"By all means." Debbie waved them in. She noted that C.J. gave Charlie an extra-warm smile of her own, and Will tossed him a thumbs-up in friendly congratulations. Toby pretended that all of this group support tried his patience, but Debbie didn't believe that for a moment. The challenging glower he then threw her way confirmed it. 

All four strode past. As soon as they no longer obscured the executive secretary's view, she glanced across at the President's personal aide. He nodded. Together, they rose and quietly followed their colleagues into the Oval Office. They, too, had their orders. 

Walken stood behind that historic desk, Julien near the desk's corner to his left. Their stances echoed the long-familiar way Leo would always stand by and guard Bartlet's flank. 

Darrow and Brad were nowhere to be seen. Debbie suppressed an urge to gloat. 

The Acting President met each eye. "Thanks for coming." 

As if they would refuse to obey! He was still their leader, no matter how soon his term might end. Besides, they all respected _him_ as well as his office. Really. 

Either Walken read their faces or he sensed their thoughts, for he came closer to smiling now than he ever had before around here. 

Then he sighed. "I just got back from briefing the Situation Room. Last time I'll see it, and I can't say I'm too sorry." Understandable - that chamber would scare anyone. "And I guess this will be the last time I call y'all together, too." 

"I'm not so sure about that!" a new voice interposed. 

Everyone jerked about fast, towards the rear of this long chamber. 

Jed Bartlet was a past master at making an entrance. He marched in, one hand pocketed, the other swinging freely, head tipped a bit forward in that very familiar contemplative style, not _quite_ grinning - but close. 

He was still in civvies, a red button-down shirt and casual black slacks this time... yet somehow he looked entirely presidential again. His hair was combed, his pace brisk, and his eyes flashed with the joy of life. 

Following in his wake, Leo put the final seal on that image of The Man's return: immaculate and supportive and faithful as ever. 

Bartlet seemed to bring the brilliant sunlight along with him, even as he walked into its golden reach. His soul had been illuminated, his heart lightened... and that blissful state spread outward like a warm, fresh breeze to everyone else around. 

Save for Walken and Leo, and Debbie, this was the first any of them had seen of him since he signed that first letter. Team B as a whole was too delighted to do anything but gape and beam. Julien, the sole survivor of Team A, maintained a stiff and proper posture, as though hoping he would measure up. 

Bartlet strolled up to the front of his own desk, exchanging deeply meaningful nods with each staff member. Josh tried to act nonchalant, and only managed to appear goofier than usual. C.J. didn't hesitate to display her broadest smile. Will stood proudly at attention, and Toby... well, when _he_ smiled, it was a special occasion. Charlie seemed perfectly happy to just stand there and watch his leader and mentor pass by. Debbie inclined her head in salute. 

_He was back._

"Mr. President." It was Walken's place to greet his predecessor first - just like last time. _This_ time, evident to the two people who'd been here the _last_ time, his tone was significantly different. 

"And _you,_ Mr. President." Finally, Bartlet did not avoid granting his one-time premier rival that proper address. He offered a handshake, too, right across that desk - which was accepted without any of the churlish patronizing so evident the time before. 

"Congratulations on the safe return of your daughter." 

"Thanks. She's going to be fine. She's got way too much of her mother in her to be anything _but_ fine." Paternal pride rang in that baritone, chasing away the last shreds of doubt. 

She also had a lot of her father in her, but Debbie thought it best not to add that codicil just now. 

From the twitching of a few staffers, she hadn't been alone in that observation. 

The executive secretary took a moment to compare the stances of her two leaders. She had not, of course, been present for their first face-off in this office - but she could imagine. One man about to step down, the other about to take over. Walken must have dominated the room by sheer size, by legal right and by authoritative intent; Bartlet must have diminished as he never had before, watching as both his office and his identity were handed to someone else. 

The second occasion she _had_ witnessed, and she would never forget. Walken had stood on arrogance, Bartlet on fury and desperation. There had been nothing small in his posture when he raged at his exclusion and came frighteningly close to losing all self-control. Size would not have protected his perceived target then. 

Here now, the third and probably final occasion, Walken was the one who somehow looked smaller. Bartlet's presence filled this room, calm and confident once more. The transfer of power would very shortly be reversed. One man would leave the role he had accepted for duty's sake, the other resuming the role for which he had been born. 

"Sir..." Walken actually hesitated, as he had never done since arriving here. His heavy features didn't look bulldog-obstinate as usual; instead, they looked mournful. "I want to apologize for the pain my people caused your family." 

Bartlet paused as well, his quiet gladness dimming a bit. Then he shook his head. "Not your fault. You and I were both a means to an end for them." 

He didn't say it aloud, but everyone knew that he didn't think for one instant that the Acting President had been in any way a part of that colossal scheme. 

Walken didn't need to hear those words, either. His slow nod overflowed with gratitude. 

Bartlet swept the room, taking stock. "So... this was a domestic plot after all. A domestic _political_ plot." 

"Better than a foreign one, I suppose. Less complex overall. And it shouldn't shake the people up too much; by now they must believe that politicians are capable of anything." 

This dry humor, to a politician _from_ a politician, tickled several snickers out of the various witnesses. 

The Man shook his head again. "It's still a blow to the whole system. Both parties will need to get past it." There would be internal repercussions for sure, and not only among the Republican ranks. 

He flickered a grin. "This is not a threat, Glen, but we'll probably have to cooperate at least a _bit_ there." 

Walken grunted. "Compared to the Joint Chiefs, it'll be a piece of cake." 

Bartlet nodded... and then his inner glow died a little more. "The funeral for Molly O'Connor is tomorrow." 

"Think anyone would mind if I came?" 

"Absolutely not." 

It might have sounded odd that anyone would feel obliged to request permission to attend a funeral service, much less a President. On the other hand, Molly's brutal death had tied directly to the reason why Walken took his oath of office. A sense of discomfort and uncertainty in the big man could be understood. 

"It will be a thanksgiving for her life," Bartlet extrapolated. "And for the peaceful resolution of the calamity that had threatened this country and the whole world. A calamity that we dodged by the grace of God. A calamity you were instrumental in preventing." 

Walken might not have expected a refusal, but he probably hadn't expected such an endorsement either. "Thank you, sir." 

Then he reached into the top right drawer of the "Resolute" desk, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. 

"You'll probably want this now." 

Only Debbie and Bartlet himself could have recognized that letter by its appearance, but every soul present knew what it had to be. The _second_ letter, residing in that drawer all this time, in readiness for this moment. And everyone knew what it represented. 

Restoration. Normalcy. The final page to a very hard chapter in all their lives. It only needed one signature in order to fulfill almost every dream in this room. 

For once, Walken remained utterly expressionless. Did he feel regret, loss and perhaps even resentment at so short a term? Did he desperately want _out_ of this office and its agonizing decisions, its glaring spotlight, its terrifying responsibility? Or was he merely content to have done his duty to his country, content to have had this unique time as President, and now calmly accepting the fact that he had finished his work here? 

Bartlet looked down at the paper... and then up at his replacement. 

"Not just yet." 

Every face but his dropped in amazement. _What_ did he just say? 

"I'm going to take one more day. Abbey and I want to spend it with our family. And I want to sleep knowing that no one's going to come knocking on my door with a national problem. I want to just... _live_ for awhile. Live, and rest." 

After what he and his family had been through, no one could deny that they all deserved the break. 

"And I don't want to just heave you out of here, Glen. You did a fine job. You were dumped into the deep end, and I'm sure it wasn't easy to be accepted around here." Bartlet said that without the least trace of accusation towards his own employees. It had been a perfectly natural reaction for all of them. 

"You deserve the privilege of holding this office at least a little longer," he went on. "You deserve the opportunity to lead in peacetime as well as in war. You _don't_ deserve to be tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper, the moment we no longer need you." 

Walken had recovered to some extent, and he'd put that letter back in its drawer for the future, but he clearly had no idea what to say just yet. 

"An extension of my hiatus is acceptable to the Constitution," Bartlet continued easily. He must have thought this out well in advance. "Meanwhile, it will make you _and_ your party look a bit less like our enemies. I've had more than enough of _that_ lately." 

Walken weighed each of his words in advance. "It will also send a clear message to the nation - about _you._ You're not so paranoid, or so vengeful, that you have to eject your opponent the first instant you get." 

Bartlet hiked an eyebrow at that compliment. "Well, we always do like to hope for the impossible," he joked, briefly. Then his tone leveled. "Now I realize you can't do that much in a single day - but you deserve _some_ reward for your high service here." 

"I could start the reversal of the increase in military forces overseas. That will be one less chore for you. And it's appropriate, since I sent most of them over there." 

"Good thought." Bartlet's speech slowed down, a sure sign that he too was considering carefully what to say next. "In a way, every hour you spend here is extra training... for your own White House bid." 

That widened several eyes in the room. Compliments across parties, especially with regard to the most hotly contested election in American politics, was all but unthinkable in this ultra-political city. 

However, they each had seen - or heard - how the lust for power could twist politics beyond all reason. 

"Which reminds me: you resigned as Speaker in order to work here." Bartlet's azure vision developed a very thoughtful glow. "The least we can do is find you another job." 

Walken tipped his head. "That's kind of you, sir, but -" 

"Well, you're President in your own right. You deserve all the honor and public esteem thereto. Say - we could celebrate the Fourth of July together! That'll be a first for sure!" 

"Hm..." 

Debbie calculated that their national holiday would turn out to be quite an event this year. Walken _was_ the President, fully and legitimately. Whether his term lasted three days or eight years, he had taken his place in the history books - honorably so. The American people should know fully what he had done for them. 

"On the other hand, we don't want to make you look like a souvenir. No, you need a _real_ job." Bartlet suddenly stabbed a pointing finger forward. "Ambassador? I'm sure we could find a posting somewhere that you'd like. There are ways to get the incumbent reassigned, you know... _legal_ ways," he clarified quickly. 

Before Walken could do more than look flattered, the _former_ President dismissed this idea as well. "Nah - that would mean you'd have to move, and the rest of your family is comfortable here. I'd hate to be the cause of your son not seeing you for some years." 

"That's _very_ kind." 

"Not to mention the fact that it might look like I wanted to drive you as far from this place as possible. And that's not the effect I have in mind. Still, we need _something._ " 

Bartlet stuffed both hands in his pants pockets and narrowed one eye only, almost winking. "Something towards the opposite extreme? I know of one vacancy right here in town." He paused for effect. "Vice President." 

Disbelieving gasps burst out on several fronts, including from the Acting Chief Executive himself. 

"What?" Bartlet pretended to be hurt by their shock. "You think it's not possible to have a President and a Vice President from different sides? Maybe in this era it feels kind of unlikely, but I'll have you know that there's already an historical precedent. The election was originally designed that way, two centuries ago and more: the runner-up took on the job of VP - which meant he _always_ came from another party." 

That had been quite literally another age. How could it be applied to the modern day, against the well-established blight of American partisanship? And yet Bartlet never faltered in his enthusiasm. 

"You've had quite the opportunity here, Glen. A marvelous chance to see how the Oval Office works - something the usual Vice President never really learns. This is the first time in U.S. history. It'd be a shame not to take advantage of the possible benefits." 

Finally, Walken found his voice again. "Benefits there might be, but it could make me almost a shoo-in when your term is up. How much are you prepared to fly into the face of your own party?" 

"That's hardly a new experience." Bartlet started to tick off a few additional factors. "Of course, making you VP could cause _you_ some problems in the end as well. You'd be in the public eye more than you were as Speaker - in fact, more than you've been over the past two days as well, since you won't be locked in here. The people would have plenty of time to really evaluate your leadership potential. They'd have a lot more grist for the mill, too; you can't hide much from them at this level. You'd be stuck in the one of the most powerless positions of federal government for the next three and a half years. _And_ you'd have to support the agenda of this Administration, even if that goes against the wishes of _your_ party." 

There was a lot of food for thought there. Public scrutiny had destroyed many a politician in the past. 

"Sir... I'm not sure I'm the best man for the job. None of my colleagues have ever suggested that I run for President. I never came up for nomination." 

"Well, neither did I at first. Good thing I have a few fans who refused to take no for an answer." Bartlet glanced fondly at the staffers gathered around him. They grinned back, sharing the memories. "Just goes to show that the experts don't know everything." 

Walken adopted a pensive frown, and waited a nerve-racking while before responding. "Are you really willing to risk this?" 

By comparison, Bartlet seemed quite unbothered. "Why not? I've learned over the years that risk is about the only thing that makes the game worth playing." 

"You'd piss off a _lot_ of your allies." 

"And you'd make a few enemies in your own camp as well. I've seen that movie before; it ain't so bad." 

"We'd _really_ have to work together," Walken pointed out - and this time everyone picked up on the amusement in his tone. 

The Man feigned astonishment. "You mean, give up our habit of going for each other's throats?" 

Debbie smirked at that one, understanding exactly what they both referred to: the _last_ time they'd met in this office. 

"You might even manage to influence me on a few of our issues," Bartlet added, sounding not the least bit worried about such a possibility. 

"Or you might influence _me._ " 

This really was fun: each man arguing in favor of the other, and against his own position - the exact reverse of what would normally be expected. The gathered staffers made no attempt to contribute, thoroughly satisfied just to observe and enjoy. 

"Want to take the chance?" Bartlet's eyes danced. 

And now, at last, Walken smiled. "Sounds like a challenge to me. If _you're_ up to it, there should be no reason why I'm not." 

"The big question now is, are the _people_ up to it?" 

"They might benefit from our cooperation." 

"Or suffer from our conflict." 

"Some people say competition breeds excellence." 

"Then we have nothing to worry about." 

Pause. Both men had sobered again, looking hard at what they proposed to do. 

"We won't decide anything now," Bartlet decreed firmly to the room at large. "We'll all tired and frayed. I want everyone to sleep on it - literally. We'll revisit this tomorrow, when we have some clearer heads." Bobbing skulls agreed with him. 

"Glen..." He turned back, now dead serious. His replacement waited. 

"Consider this _very_ carefully. If you believe that you can serve the position well, despite the Democrats, the Republicans and anyone else with a narrow view... then I'm prepared to back your play." 

By this he meant that he would accept the former Speaker and present Republican as his official successor in the final extremity: if he resigned for good... or died in office. 

Not one of the staffers voiced an objection to this outlandish proposal. Thus did they proclaim their agreement with their _real_ Chief Executive's judgment, as well as the respect and the trust they'd come to have for their executive stand-in. 

Clearly Bartlet didn't resent that trust, either. If fact he looked pleased and proud that they all had managed to pull together for the good of the nation. 

And if they did it this time, in the worst possible circumstances, then surely they could do it again. 

~ HOUR 33 ~ 

At long last, the finale had come. Now, suddenly, there was nothing left to do. 

Nancy would be here at any moment, fresh from her latest nap to stand guard through the next few hours alone. Debbie packed her purse, preparing to make a break for it the first instant she could. Almost the entire White House staff - administrative, domestic and maintenance - had been ordered to go home and flake. Sure this mansion/museum/historical site could survive without filing and dusting for a _little_ while... 

C.J. had briefed the press once more, and the headlines were already circling the globe. The pressure had plunged; relief blanketed all hearts. War had been averted in the eleventh hour; wholesale _and_ personal death had been forestalled; evil had been stayed. Everyone savored this celebratory and peaceful atmosphere. 

The executive secretary would savor it even more from home, with a stiff drink and a soft bed - 

"Debbie." 

She spun around, her heart rate instantly accelerating. She hadn't heard anyone enter the otherwise empty reception area, much less walk up behind her. "Mr. President!" 

_Now_ what? 

Good Lord, not _another_ problem! 

"At ease, already." Bartlet grinned at her reaction. 

"Sorry. What can I do for you, sir?" Technically, she was not off duty _yet._ Couldn't he have waited five more minutes? 

Technically, he wasn't _on_ duty yet. 

"Nothing official." His smile faded, but the light in his eyes mounted in compensation. "I'm just making the rounds of the staff before they leave. All of you gave my family and me so much support. I wanted to thank everyone personally." 

"Sir, it was our pleasure." She meant it, too. Despite the sleep lost, the anxiety suffered and the fights only just avoided, none of them would have hesitated to offer their very best. 

"So I've been told, many times over. You guys are a real bunch of masochists." 

"Part of life in the White House." 

"I know the feeling. But any way you cut it, this place is extraordinarily blessed." The President made that pronouncement without any doubt at all. 

He paused, shifting his weight self-consciously. "I wanted to thank _you_ especially, for how you contributed towards the solution." 

Debbie blinked in no little astonishment. "Me?" She hadn't played any special part in any of this. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean..." 

He settled back, as though for a good long story, and she found herself hoping that Nancy didn't arrive in time to interrupt. She hoped _no one_ would interrupt. 

"The actual rescue operation is classified. The Secret Service wants to be able to use those methods again in the future if necessary, so they don't want the details to get out. I can say this, though: your stamp was the clue we needed." 

"It was?" 

"Ron started a trace through the email address of your fellow eBay bidders. No leads there, unfortunately. He then went back through the seller's address to the dealer's store, and then to off-line buyers in the store. He also checked out other sellers who advertised a similar stamp online, and all the collectors' newsletters in town. Finally, he got hold of a store camera image and ID'd a suspect." 

"Good work!" 

"Yeah, the kind of solid police drudgery that never makes it to prime-time TV. Anyway, judging from suspect commentary, that stamp was used on impulse, after the kidnappers heard about the Old Man's collapse. They really wanted to rub my nose in it." 

"It was the one detail they hadn't worked out in advance," Debbie realized. "Hence, it was flawed." She hesitated. "I'm still sorry about the monument, but at least some good came of its passing." 

Bartlet looked down. "Yeah, you're right." An ageless mountain for a mortal girl... to him, that sounded like more than a fair trade. 

In the next few silent seconds she just soaked up this quiet interlude, standing here and chatting comfortably with her leader as though nothing could be more natural. They didn't need formality; they didn't even need chairs and coffee. Yet another reason to give thanks to God on high: during this trial she and her boss had built a genuine friendship. 

Of course she dared not let things change _too_ much. After all, the office of the Presidency still merited its deference. And she wouldn't let The Man get away with anything she knew he shouldn't, such as not eating properly... 

The sun was shining strongly into reception, warm and joyful. Its light seemed to gather around him - Nah, she was getting silly here. Must be the exhaustion. 

At last, Debbie decided to yield to her curiosity. "Can you tell me anything about the rescue itself?" 

"Only that it must've been something to see." Paternal pride infused his face. "Zoey had launched a escape attempt on her own. Even though her captors treated her very well, that took a lot of nerve. She probably would've failed, too..." 

His eyes flicked aside, revealing a fresh dose of haunted fear. 

"But the Service arrived just in time. In fact, Zoey's effort actually increased her margin of safety, and their margin of success as well, because she met the assault team halfway." Now Bartlet chuckled. "I've been told that she tackled Wes Davis full-on, thinking he was one of the enemy." 

Then the amusement faded again. "And he almost killed _her_ before he saw who she was." 

Debbie let out a long breath. Talk about close! 

The President glanced about, plainly wanting to distance himself from that unsettling thought. "Where's Charlie?" 

"Gone home. He didn't want to hang around, in case Zoey found out and it made her feel even more uncomfortable." 

"Smart boy." Bartlet's tone agreed with this sound reasoning, but his stern features suggested he had no intention of letting any man near his daughter ever again. Debbie hid a fresh smile at that defensive note. 

She wondered briefly whether Charlie and Zoey would be at ease in each other's presence anytime soon. Charlie still blamed himself at least a bit for not protecting her, even though he'd had no way of doing so. Zoey would be blaming herself for not listening to him from the start - even though she could not possibly have predicted this chain of events. Perhaps over time, after they'd gotten past the bad memories on both sides... 

That spawned other ideas. "Sir, I hope you haven't been apologizing profusely to your daughter all this while." 

Bartlet did a double take. "Of _course_ I have!" His disbelief indicated that he'd never considered doing otherwise. All of this had ultimately been because of _him!_

"Don't." Debbie looked him straight in the eye. "This wasn't _your_ fault either. Blaming yourself will only make Zoey feel worse. She'll start taking responsibility herself, and she shouldn't be doing that either." 

Silence. 

The Man sized her up. "You know, for someone without children, you had a surprising grasp of parenthood." 

His secretary looked modest. "I'm a good observer." Then she adopted a graver air. "Children have to be allowed to grow up. You might not be able to protect Zoey as completely as you'd like... but you gave her the strength and the will to endure her ordeal. You _and_ your wife made it possible for her to survive." 

More silence. 

Slowly, Bartlet nodded. "Thanks." 

Debbie raised an eyebrow. "Do me one favor, sir, and don't tell anyone else. If people start coming to me for counseling, it will seriously cut into my workday." 

"I suppose I can keep _that_ secret. But don't ask me to do the same about the stamp." 

"Oh, _especially_ not the stamp!" she almost pleaded. 

He cocked his head in wonder. "Why? You broke the case, Debbie. Nobody at the post office, at the Correspondence Office or in the Secret Service made that connection. You shed the light. Otherwise we _still_ might not know where Zoey is!" 

Put that way, Debbie could see his point... 

"That _might_ be so, but public acclaim gets too embarrassing. Besides, I don't want to draw attention away from your family's happiness." 

He pretended to sulk. "Damn. I was looking forward to it. Heroine status, medal ceremony, pictures in the paper, sainthood..." 

She actually shuddered. "Well, if you're trying to scare me, you're going about it the right way. Sir." She most definitely did not want that kind of attention drawn to herself. She had seen the downside of fame on too many other lives - including his. 

Bartlet rolled his eyes. "All right, already. No formal announcement. Ruins my day, but some people just won't listen to sense." His grin belied that criticism. 

She slumped in relief. "Makes sense to _me._ Thank you very much, sir. Really." 

"Guess you'll just have to settle for just the stamp itself, then." 

She went very still, her eyes widening. 

"I've already ordered a couple of sheets. Framed, too." Her boss's grin spread. "Consider it a nowhere-near-sufficient expression of _my_ thanks." 

Debbie needed a moment to find her voice again. 

"Mr. President... that is very generous." 

Bartlet extended his hand, palm up in a courtly gesture. His blue eyes were very soft. "You helped to restore my daughter, my Presidency... my life." 

Debbie accepted what she thought would be just a handshake - but instead, as gallant as a king, he lifted her knuckles to his lips. 

Now _that_ reward was worth more to her than all the medals in the world. 


End file.
